Blinding Light Of Heaven…

The whole folderol and whoop-de-do about the 1960s was that the crypto-fascist bullshit agenda was damn near overthrown by a bunch of 19 and 20 year olds on campuses scattered around the high tech world. The male dominant agenda is so fragile that any competitor is felt as a deadly foe.—Terence McKenna


Freezing rain, early morning, just past midnight… Off to bed. Hope all is well with you and the world…



On The Menu:

Sylvian & Fripp – Jean The Birdman

The Links

The Quotes

Sufi Tales… Part 1

David Sylvian & Robert Fripp – God’s Monkey

Sufi Tales Part 2

Poetry: More Robinson Jeffers…

David Sylvian & Robert Fripp – Blinding Light Of Heaven

All Art: Gustave Klimt




Sylvian & Fripp – Jean The Birdman


The Links:

I could have told you that!

Devil Plant!

The Spicy Cauldron…!

Wandering Wandjina…


The Quotes:

“Never go to bed mad. Stay up and fight.”

“One of the most obvious facts about grownups to a child is that they have forgotten what it is like to be a child.”

“Advertisements… contain the only truths to be relied on in a newspaper.”

“You can only be young once. But you can always be immature.”

“Integrity without knowledge is weak and useless, and knowledge without integrity is dangerous and dreadful.”

“If we were not all so interested in ourselves, life would be so uninteresting that none of us would be able to endure it.”


Sufi Tales… Part 1


Four people were given a piece of money.

The first was a Persian. He said: ‘I will buy with this some angur.’

The second was an Arab. He said: ‘No, because I want inab.’

The third was Turk. He said: ‘I do not want inab, I want uzum.’

The fourth was a Greek. He said: ‘I want stafil.’

Because they did not know what lay behind the names of things, these four started to fight.

They had information but no knowledge.

One man of wisdom present could have reconciled them all, saying: ‘I can fulfil the needs of all of you, with one and the same piece of money. If you honestly give me your trust, your one coin will become as four; and four at odds will become as one united.’

Such a man would know that each in his own language wanted the same thing, grapes.

– taken from the sufi Jalal-Uddin Rumi (d.1273)


Mahmud of Ghazna

It is related that Mahmud of Ghazna was once walking in his garden when he stumbled over a blind dervish sleeping beside a bush.

As soon as he awoke, the dervish cried, “You clumsy oaf! Have you no eyes, that you must trample upon the sons of men?”

Mahmud’s companion, who was one of his courtiers, shouted, “Your blindness is equaled only by your stupidity! Since you cannot see, you should be doubly careful of whom you are accusing of heedlessness.”

“If by that you mean”, said the dervish, “that I should not criticize a sultan, it is you who should realize your shallowness.”

Mahmud was impressed that the blind man knew that he was in the presence of the king, and he said mildly, “Why, O dervish, should a king have to listen to vituperation from you?”

“Precisely”, said the dervish, “because it is the shielding of people of any category from criticism appropriate to them which is responsible for their downfall. It is the burnished metal which shines most brightly, the knife struck with the whetstone which cuts best, and the exercised arm which can lift the weight.”



David Sylvian & Robert Fripp – God’s Monkey


Sufi Tales Part 2

The Frogs

A group of frogs were traveling through the woods, and two of them fell into a deep pit. All the other frogs gathered around the pit. When they saw how deep the pit was, they told the unfortunate frogs they would never get out. The two frogs ignored the comments and tried to jump up out of the pit.

The other frogs kept telling them to stop, that they were as good as dead. Finally, one of the frogs took heed to what the other frogs were saying and simply gave up. He fell down and died.

The other frog continued to jump as hard as he could. Once again, the crowd of frogs yelled at him to stop the pain and suffering and just die. He jumped even harder and finally made it out. When he got out, the other frogs asked him, “Why did you continue jumping. Didn’t you hear us?”

The frog explained to them that he was deaf. He thought they were encouraging him the entire time.

This story holds two lessons:

1. There is power of life and death in the tongue. An encouraging word to someone who is down can lift them up and help them make it through the day.

2. A destructive word to someone who is down can be what it takes to kill them. Be careful of what you say. Speak life to those who cross your path.

The power of words… it is sometimes hard to understand that an encouraging word can go such a long way. Anyone can speak words that tend to rob another of the spirit to continue in difficult times.

Special is the individual who will take the time to encourage another.

Why Are You Here?

One day Nasrudin was walking along a deserted road. Night was

falling as he spied a troop of horsemen coming toward him. His

imagination began to work, and he feared that they might rob him,

or impress him into the army. So strong did this fear become that

he leaped over a wall and found himself in a graveyard. The other

travelers, innocent of any such motive as had been assumed by

Nasrudin, became curious and pursued him.

When they came upon him lying motionless, one said, “Can we help

you? And, why are you here in this position?”

Nasrudin, realizing his mistake said, “It is more complicated

than you assume. You see, I am here because of you; and you, you

are here because of me.”


Poetry: More Robinson Jeffers…


Joy is a trick in the air; pleasure is merely

contemptible, the dangled

Carrot the ass follows to market or precipice;

But limitary pain — the rock under the tower

and the hewn coping

That takes thunder at the head of the turret-

Terrible and real. Therefore a mindless dervish

carving himself

With knives will seem to have conquered the world.

The world’s God is treacherous and full of

unreason; a torturer, but also

The only foundation and the only fountain.

Who fights him eats his own flesh and perishes

of hunger; who hides in the grave

To escape him is dead; who enters the Indian

Recession to escape him is dead; who falls in

love with the God is washed clean

Of death desired and of death dreaded.

He has joy, but Joy is a trick in the air; and

pleasure, but pleasure is contemptible;

And peace; and is based on solider than pain.

He has broken boundaries a little and that will

estrange him; he is monstrous, but not

To the measure of the God…. But I having told


However I suppose that few in the world have

energy to hear effectively-

Have paid my birth-dues; am quits with the


Fawn’s Foster-Mother

The old woman sits on a bench before the door and quarrels

With her meagre pale demoralized daughter.

Once when I passed I found her alone, laughing in the sun

And saying that when she was first married

She lived in the old farmhouse up Garapatas Canyon.

(It is empty now, the roof has fallen

But the log walls hang on the stone foundation; the redwoods

Have all been cut down, the oaks are standing;

The place is now more solitary than ever before.)

“When I was nursing my second baby

My husband found a day-old fawn hid in a fern-brake

And brought it; I put its mouth to the breast

Rather than let it starve, I had milk enough for three babies.

Hey how it sucked, the little nuzzler,

Digging its little hoofs like quills into my stomach.

I had more joy from that than from the others.”

Her face is deformed with age, furrowed like a bad road

With market-wagons, mean cares and decay.

She is thrown up to the surface of things, a cell of dry skin

Soon to be shed from the earth’s old eye-brows,

I see that once in her spring she lived in the streaming arteries,

The stir of the world, the music of the mountain.

The Broken Balance

I. Reference to a Passage in Plutarch’s Life of Sulla

The people buying and selling, consuming pleasures, talking in the archways,

Were all suddenly struck quiet

And ran from under stone to look up at the sky: so shrill and mournful,

So fierce and final, a brazen

Pealing of trumpets high up in the air, in the summer blue over Tuscany.

They marvelled; the soothsayers answered:

“Although the Gods are little troubled toward men, at the end of each period

A sign is declared in heaven

Indicating new times, new customs, a changed people; the Romans

Rule, and Etruria is finished;

A wise mariner will trim the sails to the wind.”

I heard yesterday

So shrill and mournful a trumpet-blast,

It was hard to be wise…. You must eat change and endure; not be much troubled

For the people; they will have their happiness.

When the republic grows too heavy to endure, then Caesar will carry It;

When life grows hateful, there’s power …

II To the Children

Power’s good; life is not always good but power’s good.

So you must think when abundance

Makes pawns of people and all the loaves are one dough.

The steep singleness of passion

Dies; they will say, “What was that?” but the power triumphs.

Loveliness will live under glass

And beauty will go savage in the secret mountains.

There is beauty in power also.

You children must widen your minds’ eyes to take mountains

Instead of faces, and millions

Instead of persons; not to hate life; and massed power

After the lone hawk’s dead.


That light blood-loving weasel, a tongue of yellow

Fire licking the sides of the gray stones,

Has a more passionate and more pure heart

In the snake-slender flanks than man can imagine;

But he is betrayed by his own courage,

The man who kills him is like a cloud hiding a star.

Then praise the jewel-eyed hawk and the tall blue heron;

The black cormorants that fatten their sea-rock

With shining slime; even that ruiner of anthills

The red-shafted woodpecker flying,

A white star between blood-color wing-clouds,

Across the glades of the wood and the green lakes of shade.

These live their felt natures; they know their norm

And live it to the brim; they understand life.

While men moulding themselves to the anthill have choked

Their natures until the souls the in them;

They have sold themselves for toys and protection:

No, but consider awhile: what else? Men sold for toys.

Uneasy and fractional people, having no center

But in the eyes and mouths that surround them,

Having no function but to serve and support

Civilization, the enemy of man,

No wonder they live insanely, and desire

With their tongues, progress; with their eyes, pleasure; with their hearts, death.

Their ancestors were good hunters, good herdsmen and swordsman,

But now the world is turned upside down;

The good do evil, the hope’s in criminals; in vice

That dissolves the cities and war to destroy them.

Through wars and corruptions the house will fall.

Mourn whom it falls on. Be glad: the house is mined, it will fall.


Rain, hail and brutal sun, the plow in the roots,

The pitiless pruning-iron in the branches,

Strengthen the vines, they are all feeding friends

Or powerless foes until the grapes purple.

But when you have ripened your berries it is time to begin to perish.

The world sickens with change, rain becomes poison,

The earth is a pit, it Is time to perish.

The vines are fey, the very kindness of nature

Corrupts what her cruelty before strengthened.

When you stand on the peak of time it is time to begin to perish.

Reach down the long morbid roots that forget the plow,

Discover the depths; let the long pale tendrils

Spend all to discover the sky, now nothing is good

But only the steel mirrors of discovery . . .

And the beautiful enormous dawns of time, after we perish.


Mourning the broken balance, the hopeless prostration of the earth

Under men’s hands and their minds,

The beautiful places killed like rabbits to make a city,

The spreading fungus, the slime-threads

And spores; my own coast’s obscene future: I remember the farther

Future, and the last man dying

Without succession under the confident eyes of the stars.

It was only a moment’s accident,

The race that plagued us; the world resumes the old lonely immortal

Splendor; from here I can even

Perceive that that snuffed candle had something . . . a fantastic virtue,

A faint and unshapely pathos . . .

So death will flatter them at last: what, even the bald ape’s by-shot

Was moderately admirable?

VI Palinode

All summer neither rain nor wave washes the cormorants’

Perch, and their droppings have painted it shining white.

If the excrement of fish-eaters makes the brown rock a snow-mountain

At noon, a rose in the morning, a beacon at moonrise

On the black water: it is barely possible that even men’s present

Lives are something; their arts and sciences (by moonlight)

Not wholly ridiculous, nor their cities merely an offense.


Under my windows, between the road and the sea-cliff, bitter wild grass

Stands narrowed between the people and the storm.

The ocean winter after winter gnaws at its earth, the wheels and the feet

Summer after summer encroach and destroy.

Stubborn green life, for the cliff-eater I cannot comfort you, ignorant which color,

Gray-blue or pale-green, will please the late stars;

But laugh at the other, your seed shall enjoy wonderful vengeances and suck

The arteries and walk in triumph on the faces.


Sylvian & Fripp – Blinding Light Of Heaven


Mid Week Dance…

I know nothing except the fact of my ignorance. Socrates, from Diogenes Laertius, Lives of Eminent Philosophers

Running a bit late, so no real comments today. Testing with radio again today, check it if you like….

On The Menu:

The Links

The Golden Fly

Ancient Cornish Poetry

Ancient Welsh Poetry

Various Alchemical Paintings…




The Links:

The Synergy Project: If you are in London UK around the 2nd of December…

The Twelfth Bag of Xmas…

Something For The Little Scientist…

Something For The Little Monkey!

Tornado Tears Up Welsh Village!

Research Proves Fish Have Personalities…


Regard your good name as the richest jewel you can possibly be possessed of – for credit is like fire; when once you have kindled it you may easily preserve it, but if you once extinguish it, you will find it an arduous task to rekindle it again. The way to gain a good reputation is to endeavor to be what you desire to appear. Socrates


The Golden Fly

Ethaun, Angus, Fuamach, and Midyir lived in the World of the Gods. Ethaun said to Angus:

“I am weary of everything that I see; let me go into the other worlds with you.”

Angus said:

“When I go into the other worlds I wander from place to place and people do not know that I am a god. In the earth they think I am a juggler or a wandering minstrel or a beggar-man. If you come with me you will seem a poor singing woman or a strolling player.”

Then Ethaun said:

“I will ask Midyir to make a world for myself–all the worlds are full of weariness.”

She went to find Midyir, and as she went she saw below her the World of the Bright Shadow that is called Ildathach, and the World of the Dark Shadow that is called Earth. Midyir was looking down at the Earth, and a brightness grew on it as he looked. Ethaun was angry because Midyir cared to make a brightness on the Earth, and she turned away from him, and said:

“I wish the worlds would clash together and disappear! I am weary of everything I can see.”

Then Fuamach said:

“You have the heart of a fly, that is never contented; take the body of a fly, and wander till your heart is changed and you get back your own shape again.”

Ethaun became a little golden fly, and she was afraid to leave the World of the Gods and wished she could get back her shape again. She flew to Midyir and buzzed round him, but he was making a brightness on the Earth and did not hear her; when she lit on his hand he brushed her away.

She went to Angus, and he was making music on the strings of his tiompan; when she buzzed about him he said: “You have a sweet song, little fly,” and he made the tiompan buzz like a fly. She lit on his hand, and he said: “You are very beautiful, little golden fly, and because you are beautiful I will give you a gift. Now speak and ask for the gift that will please you best.” Then Ethaun was able to speak, and she said:

“O Angus, give me back my shape again. I am Ethaun, and Fuamach has changed me into a fly and bidden me wander till I get back my shape.”

Angus looked sadly at the little golden fly, and said:

“It is only in Ildathach that I am a Shape-Changer. Come with me to that land and I will

make a palace for you and while you are in it you will have the shape of Ethaun.”

“I will go with you,” said Ethaun, “and live in your palace.”

She went with him, and he brought her into a beautiful palace that had all the colours of the rainbow. It had four windows to it, and when she looked out of the window to the West she saw a great wood of pine trees and oak trees and trees that had golden apples; when she looked out of the window to the North she saw a great mountain shaped like a spear, and white like flame; and when she looked to the South she saw a far-stretching plain with many little gleaming lakes; but the window to the East was fast closed, and Angus said she must never unbar it.

Ethaun was happy for a long time in the rainbow-palace and Angus came and played to her and told her tales of all the worlds; but at last the old longing came to her and she grew weary of everything she could see.

“I wish the walls of the palace would fall and the trees wither,” she said, “for they are always the same!”

She went to the window in the East and unbarred it. She saw the sea outside it, wind-driven and white with foam, and a great wind blew the window open and caught Ethaun and whirled her out of the palace, and she became again a little golden fly. She wandered and wandered through the World of the Bright Shadow that is called Ildathach till she came to the World of the Dark Shadow that is Earth, and she wandered there for a long time, scorched by the sun and beaten by the rain, till she came to a beautiful house where a king and queen were standing together. The king had a golden cup full of mead and he was giving it to the queen. Ethaun lit on the edge of the cup, but the queen never saw the little golden fly, and she did not know that it slipped into the mead, and she drank it with the mead.

Afterwards there was a child born to the queen–a strange beautiful child, and the queen called her Ethaun. Every one in the palace loved the child and tried to please her but nothing pleased her for long and as she grew older and more beautiful they tried harder to please her but she was never contented. The queen was sad at heart because of this, and the sadness grew on her day by day and she began to think her child was of the Deathless Ones that bring with them too much joy or too much sorrow for mortals.

One day Ethaun said the Queen’s singer had no songs worth listening to and she began to sing one of her own songs; as she sang, the queen looked into her eyes and knew that Ethaun was no child of hers, and when she knew it she bowed herself in her seat and died. The king said Ethaun brought ill-luck and he sent her away to live in a little hut of woven branches in a forest where only shepherds and simple people came to her and brought her food.

She grew every day more beautiful and walked under the great trees in the forest and sang her own songs. One day the king of all Ireland came riding by. His name was Eochy, and he was young and beautiful and strong. When he saw Ethaun he said:

“No woman in the world is beautiful after this one!” and he got down from his horse and came to Ethaun. She was sitting outside the little hut and combing her hair in the sunshine, and her hair was like fine gold and very long.

“What is your name? ” said the king, “and what man is your father? “

“Ethaun is my name,” said she, “and a king is my father.”

“It is wrong,” said Eochy, “that your beauty should be shut in this forest, come with me and you shall be the High Queen of Ireland.”

Then Ethaun looked at Eochy, and it seemed to her that she had known him always. She said:

“I have waited here for you and no other. Take me into your house, High King.”

Eochy took her with him and made her his queen, and all the country that he ruled was glad because the High Queen was so beautiful. Eochy made a wonderful house for her. It had nine doors of carved red yew, and precious stones were in the walls of it. Ethaun and the king lived in it, and the harpers sang to them, and the noblest warriors in Erin stood about their doors. The king was happy, but there was always in the mind of Ethaun a beauty that made the rich hangings seem poor and the jewels dull and she had a song in her heart that took the music out of all other songs. The harpers of the Five Provinces of Ireland came into the feast hall of Eochy at Samhain, but there was weariness on the face of Ethaun while they played, and though the High King gave them gold rings and jewels and high seats of honour they had no joy in coming to his house.

The warriors clashed their swords when the High Queen passed but any one who looked into her eyes dreamed of strange countries and had in him the longing to go over seas, and Eochy was grieved because the noblest of his chiefs became like the lonely bird of the waves that never builds a nest.

One day Ethaun leaned against the carved yew door of her sunny-palace and watched the sea-gulls wheeling in the blueness of the sky. Inside, the Fool was strewing green rushes and scented leaves and buds before her chair. The Fool was always in the palace because his wits had gone from him, and people say that fools have the dark wisdom of the, gods. Ethaun could hear him singing:

“I had a black hound and a white.

The Day is long, and long the Night.

A great wave swallowed up the sea,

And still the hounds were following me.

The white hound had a crown of gold,

But no one saw it, young or old.

The black hound’s feet were swift as fire–

‘Tis he that was my heart’s desire.

The Sun and Moon leaned from the sky

When I and my two hounds went by.”

Ethaun turned from the door and went into the room where the Fool was. Her dress swept the young green leaves but she had no thought of them or of the little flowers the Fool had put with the rushes.

“Go on singing!” she said. “I wish my heart were as lightsome as yours.”

“How could your heart be lightsome, Queen,” said the Fool, “when you will not give the flower a chance to blossom, or the hound a chance to catch his prey, or the bird a clear sky to sing in? If you were of the Deathless Ones you would burn the world to warm your hands!”

The redness of shame spread itself in Ethaun’s face. She stooped and lifted a little bud from the. floor.

“I think the Deathless Ones could make this bud blossom,” she said, “but all the buds that I break off wither in my hands. I will break no more buds, Fool.”

While she spoke there was a noise outside, and Ethaun asked her women what it was.

“Only a beggar-man they are driving away. He says he is a juggler and can do tricks.”

“Let him stay,” said Ethaun, “and I will see his tricks.”

“O Queen,” said the women, “he is a starveling and ignorant; how could he please you when Incar, the King’s juggler, did not please you?”

“Let the man stay,” said Ethaun; “if he has the will to please me he will please–and tonight Incar will please me too.”

She stepped out through the carved yew door and bade the beggar-man do his tricks. He was clumsy and his tricks were not worth looking at, but the Queen gave him a ring from her finger and the little bud she had in her hand, and said:

“Stay here to-night and the King’s juggler will teach you good feats.”

The beggar-man put the ring in his bosom but he kept the bud in his hands and suddenly it blossomed into a rose and he plucked the petals apart and flung them into the air and they became beautiful white birds and they sang till every one forgot the sky above them and the earth beneath them with gladness, but Ethaun put her hands before her eyes and the tears came through her fingers.

The birds circled away into the air, singing, and when the people looked for the beggar-man he was gone. Ethaun called after him: “Angus Angus! Come back!” but no one answered, and there was only the far-off singing of the birds.

That night the King’s juggler did feats with golden balls and with whirling swords and Ethaun praised him so that for gladness he thought of new feats, and while the people were shouting with delight a tall dark man in the robes of a foreigner came into the hall. Now the king loved to speak with men from far countries and he called the stranger to him, and said:

“What knowledge have you, and what skill is in your fingers?”

“I know,” said the stranger, “‘where the sun goes when the earth does not see it, and I have skill in the playing of chess.”

Gladness was on the king when he heard of the chess-playing, for he himself had such skill that no one could beat him.

I will play a game with you,” he said. “Let the chess-board be brought.”

“O King,” said the attendants, “there is only the Queen’s chess-board, and it is locked away because she said it was not beautiful.”

“I will go myself for the board,” said the king, and he rose up to get it.

The stranger brought out a chess-board that had the squares made of precious stones brighter than any stones of the earth and he set the men on it. They were of gold and ivory, but the ivory was whiter than the whiteness of a cloud and the gold brighter than the sunset.

“I will give you this board in exchange for yours,” he said to the queen.

“No,” said Ethaun, “the board that Eochy made for me I will keep.”

“I will make something for you, too,” said the stranger. “I will make worlds for you.”

Ethaun looked into his eyes, and she remembered the World of the Gods, and Midyir, and Angus, and Fuamach, and how she had been a little golden fly.

“O Midyir,” she said, “in all the worlds I would be nothing but a little fly. I have wandered far, but I have learned wisdom at last from a Fool. I am going to make a world for myself.”

As she was speaking Eochy came back with the board.

“The first games on my board,” said Midyir, “the last on yours.”

“Be it so,” said Eochy. Midyir began to set out the men. “What are we playing for?” said Fochy.

“Let the winner decide,” said Midyir.

Eochy won the first game, and he asked for fifty horses out of fairyland.

“I will get them,” said Midyir, and they played again. Eochy won, and he said:

“I will ask for four hard things. Make a road over Mom Lamraide; clear Mide of stones; cover the district of Tethra with rushes; and the district of Darbrech with trees.”

“When you rise in the morning stand on the little hill near your house and you will see all these things done,” said Midyir. They played again, and Midyir won.

“What do you ask?” said Eochy.

“I ask Ethaun,” said Midyir.

“I will never give her!” said Eochy.

“The horses of fairyland are trampling outside your door, O King,” said Midyir, “give me my asking.” And he said to Ethaun: “Will you come into your own world again?”

Ethaun said:

“There is no world of all the worlds my own, for I have never made a place for myself, but Eochy has made a place for me and all the people have brought me gifts, and for the space of a year I will stay with them and bring them gladness.”

I will come at the year’s end,” said Midyir, and he left the hall, but no man saw him go.

After that there was never such a year in Ireland. The three crowns were on the land–a crown of plenty, a crown of victory, and a crown of song. Ethaun gave gifts to all the High King’s people, and to Eochy she gave a gladness beyond the dream of a man’s heart when it is fullest; and at Samhain time Eochy made a great feast and the kings of Ireland and the poets and the druids were there, and gladness was in the heart of every one.

Suddenly there was a light in the hall that made the torches and the great candles that are lit only for kings’ feasts burn dim, and Midyir the Red-Maned, stood in the hall. Then the ollavs and the poets and the druids and chiefs bowed themselves, and the king bowed himself, because Midyir had come. Midyir turned his eyes to where Ethaun sat in a seat of carved silver by the king. He had a small cruit such as musicians carry and he made a sweet music on it and sang:

Come with me! Come with me! Ethaun,

Leave the weary portals of life, leave the doon, leave the bawn.

Come! Come! Com e! Ethaun.

Lo! the white-maned untamable horses, out-racing the wind,

Scatter the embers of day as they pass, and the riders who bind

The suns to their chariot wheels and exult are calling your name,

Are calling your name through the night, Ethaun, and the night is a-flame,

Ethaun! Ethaun! Ethaun!

Come with us, Ethaun, to Moy-Mell where the star-flocks are straying

Like troops of immortal birds for ever delaying, delaying

The moment of flight that would take them away from the honey-sweet plain.

Surely you long for waves that break into starry rain

And are fain of flowers that need not die to blossom again.

Why have you turned away from me your only lover?

What lure have you seen in the eyes of a mortal that clay must cover?

Come back to me! come back, Ethaun! The high-built heavenly places

Mourn for you, and the lights are quenched, and for you immortal faces

Grow wan as faces that die. O Flame-Fair Swan of Delight,

Come with me, leave the weary portals of sleep-heavy Night;

The hosts are waiting, their horses trample the ashes of day;

Come, Light of a World that is Deathless, come away! Come away!

Midyir stretched his hands to Ethaun, and she turned to Eochy and kissed him.

“I have put into a year the gladness of a long life,” she said, ” and to-night you have heard the music of Faery, and echoes of it will be in the harp-strings of the men of Ireland for ever, and you will be remembered as long as wind blows and water runs, because Ethaun–whom Midyir loved–loved you.”

She put her hand in Midyir’s and they rose together as flame rises or as the white light rises in the sky when it is morning; and in the World of the Gods Angus waited for them, and Fuamach; and they walked together again as they had walked from the beginning of time.



I do nothing but go about persuading you all, old and young alike, not to take thought for your persons or your properties, but and chiefly to care about the greatest improvement of the soul. I tell you that virtue is not given by money, but that from virtue comes money and every other good of man, public as well as private. This is my teaching, and if this is the doctrine which corrupts the youth, I am a mischievous person. Socrates, quoted by Plato, ‘The Death of Socrates’


Ancient Cornish Poems…

The Pool of Pilate

Guel yv thy’mmo vy may fe

mos the wolhy ow dule

a Thesempes

me a vyn omma yn dour

may fons y guyn ha glan lour

a vestethes

+ + + + + + +

Ellas pan fema gynys

ancow sur yw dynythys

Scon thy’mmo vy

ny’m bus bywe ma fella

an dour re wruk thy’m henna

yn pur deffry.

The Pool of Pilate

It is best to me that it be so

Go to wash my hands


I will, here in the water,

That they may be white, and clean enough

From dirt.

[He washes his hands in the water and dies


Alas that I was born!

Death surely is come

Soon to me.

Life is no longer for me,

The water has done that to me

Very clearly.

Merlin the Diviner

Merlin! Merlin! where art thou going

So early in the day, with thy black dog?

Oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi! oi!

Oi! oi! oi! ioi! oi!

I have come here to search the way,

To find the red egg;

The red egg of the marine serpent,

By the sea-side in the hollow of the stone.

I am going to seek in the valley

The green water-cress, and the golden grass,

And the top branch of the oak,

In the wood by the side of the fountain.

Merlin! Merlin! retrace your steps;

Leave the branch on the oak,

And the green water-cress in the valley,

As well as the golden grass;

And leave the red egg of the marine serpent,

In the foam by the hollow of the stone.

Merlin! Merlin! retrace thy steps,

There is no diviner but God.


Poems from The Ancient Welsh…

To the Lark – T’R Ehedydd

Sentinel of the morning light!

Reveller of the spring!

How sweetly, nobly wild thy flight,

Thy boundless journeying:

Far from thy brethren of the woods, alone,

A hermit chorister before God’s throne!

Oh! wilt thou climb yon heavens for me,

Yon rampart’s starry height,

Thou interlude of melody

‘Twixt darkness and the light,

And seek with heav’n’s first dawn upon thy crest,

My lady love, the moonbeam of the west?

No woodland caroller art thou;

Far from the archer’s eye,

Thy course is o’er the mountain’s brow,

Thy music in the sky:

Then fearless float thy path of cloud along,

Thou earthly denizen of angel song.

To the Fox. – RHYS GOCH (of ERYRI)

The wretch my starry bird who slew,

Beast of the flameless ember hue,

Assassin, glutton of the night,

Mixed of all creatures that defile,

Land lobster, fugitive of light,

Thou coward mountain crocodile;

With downcast eye and ragged tail,

That haunt’st the hollow rocks,

Thief, ever ready to assail

The undefended flocks,

Thy brass-hued breast and tattered locks

Shall not protect thee from the hound,

When with unbaffled eye he mocks

Thy mazy fortress underground,

Whilst o’er my peacock’s shattered plumes shall shine

A pretty bower of faery eglantine.

The Song of the Thrush – RYHS GOCH

I was on the margin of a plain,

Under a wide spreading tree,

Hearing the song

Of the wild birds;

Listening to the language

Of the thrush cock,

Who from the wood of the valley

Composed a verse–

From the wood of the steep,

He sang exquisitely.

Speckled was his breast

Amongst the green leaves,

As upon branches

Of a thousand blossoms

On the bank of a brook,

All heard

With the dawn the song,

Like a silver bell;

Performing a sacrifice,

Until the hour of forenoon;

Upon the green altar

Ministering Bardism.

From the branches of the hazel

Of green broad leaves

He sings an ode

To God the Creator;

With a carol of love

From the green glade,

To all in the hollow

Of the glen, who love him;

Balm of the heart

To those who love.

I had from his beak

The voice of inspiration,

A song of metres

That gratified me;

Glad was I made

By his minstrelsy.

Then respectfully

Uttered I an address

From the stream of the valley

To the bird.

I requested urgently

His undertaking a message

To the fair one

Where dwells my affection.

Gone is the bard of the leaves

From the small twigs

To the second Lunet,

The sun of the maidens!

To the streams of the plain

St Mary prosper him,

To bring to me,

Under the green woods

The hue of the snow of one night,

Without delay.


Divine Proportion…


New Radio Show on Now! Just cut and paste these streams into your media player…

Ice, Rain, Snow. Oh, and let’s not forget the hail. Winter is coming early and hard to P-town. Nasty stuff, kinda fun, but dark days outside. Rowan and his friends have been praying for massive snow… I have been doing a series of counter spells… 8o)

A friend who I met at mindstates, Adele moved to Portland. She brought her friend Grace by yesterday. A quick half hour but very enjoyable. Grace is looking for a room probably in the SE of Portland. She is a reflexologist. If anyone knows of a place, let me know, ‘kay?

The Time Element

I have been a bit conflicted with the time I spend on Turf in the past. It is long, but the conflict comes in with my perceived views that it is in competition with painting or design. It hit me though, that Turfing takes on some of the forms of Art… It reminds me a bit of when I was working as a keyboardist. Maybe that is the wrong name, how about Synthesist? (possibly a made up word, unless you work exclusively with synthesizers.) I would spend as much time on sound patches, aka sound design as I often would on composing. I think that this is where I find myself with this little project… it is in the melding of diverse elements, even though I cannot claim any of them as my own that makes it work in my mind.

More on this later if I sort it out it out a bit better…

Todays’ entry is pretty diverse, although its emphasis is on the art of Otto Runge. Perhaps one of the most influential painters of the late 18th, and early 19th centuries, his influence is mainly on painters themselves… His paintings have an interesting sense of proportion and colour sense… 8o)

His works have found themselves in the dialog of early 19th century Alchemy….




On The Menu:

Otto Runge

So That His Actions Will Not Be Forgot – Malachi Ritscher’s Death

The Links

Religion and Revolution -Hakim Bey

Poetry: Anna Akhmatova

Art: Otto Runge

Phillip Otto Runge (1777-07-23-1810-12-02) was a Romantic German painter and draughtsman. Although he made a late start to his career and died young, he ranks second only to Friedrich among German Romantic painters.

Life and work

Born within a family of shipbuilders, Runge, after the reading of poet Ludwig Tieck, decided to pursue an artistic career. Runge studied under Jens Juel at the Copenhagen Academy (1799-1801), then moved to Dresden, where he knew Caspar David Friedrich. In 1803 he settled in Hamburg. Runge was of a mystical, pantheistic turn of mind, and in his work he tried to express notions of the harmony of the universe through symbolism of colour, form, and numbers.He also wrote poetry and to this end he planned a series of four paintings called The Times of the Day, designed to be seen in a special building and viewed to the accompaniment of music and poetry.This concept was common romantic artistics trying to achieve “total art”, or a fusion between all forms of art. He painted two versions of Morning (Kunsthalle, Hamburg), but the others did not advance beyond drawings. Runge was also one of the best German portraitists of his period; several examples are in Hamburg. His style was rigid, sharp, and intense, at times almost naïve. In 1810, after researching colour for several years and corresponding with Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, he published Die Farbenkugel (The Colour Sphere), in which he describes a three-dimensional schematic sphere for organizing all conceivable colors according to hue, brightness, and saturation. Pure hues were displayed around its equator. Through the central axis was a gray value scale, from black at the bottom to white at the top. Across the surface of the sphere, the colors were graded from black to the pure hue to white, in seven steps. Intermediate mixtures theoretically lay inside the sphere. Runge died, due to tuberculosis. His sphere was adopted 150 years later by the great german teacher Johannes Itten. Itten opened the sphere into a star to display the entirety at once in 2-D.


Thanks to Bryan W. for bringing this to my attention…

So That His Actions Will Not Be Forgot – Malachi Ritscher’s Death

War Protestor’s Public Suicide in Chicago Went Unnoticed by Media Malachi Ritscher’s apparent suicide

Malachi Ritschers Suicide Note


The Links:

The Sacred Corporate…

Christian Coalition Leader Resigns

Ethics experts warm to dead heat…


Religion and Revolution -Hakim Bey

Real money & hierarchic religion appear to have arisen in the same mysterious moment sometime between the early Neolithic and the third millennium BC in Sumer or Egypt; which came first, the chicken or the egg? Was one a response to the other or is one an aspect of the other?

No doubt that money possesses a deeply religious implication since from the very moment of its appearance it begins to strive for the condition of the spirit — to remove itself from the world of bodies, to transcend materiality, to become the one true efficacious symbol. With the invention of writing around 3100 BC money as we know it emerges from a complicated system of clay tokens or counters representing material goods & takes the form of written bills of credit impressed on clay tablets; almost without exception these “cheques” seem to concern debts owed to the State Temple, & in theory could have been used in an extended system of exchange as credit-notes “minted” by the theocracy. Coins did not appear until around 700 BC in Greek Asia Minor; they were made of electrum (gold and silver) not because these metals had commodity value but because they were sacred — Sun & Moon; the ratio of value between them has always hovered around 14:1 not because the earth contains 14 times as much silver as gold but because the Moon takes 14 “suns” to grow from dark to full. Coins may have originated as temple tokens symbolizing a worshipper’s due share of the sacrifice — holy souvenirs, which could later be traded for goods because they had “mana”, not use-value. (This function may have originated in the Stone Age trade in “ceremonial” stone axe-heads used in potlach-like distribution rites.) Unlike Mesopotamian credit-notes, coins were inscribed with sacred images & were seen as liminal objects, nodal points between quotidian reality & the world of the spirits (this accounts for the custom of bending coins to “spiritualize” them and throwing them into wells, which are the “eyes” of the otherworld.) Debt itself — the true content of all money — is a highly “spiritual” concept. As tribute (primitive debt) it exemplifies capitulation to a “legitimate power” of expropriation masked in religious ideology — but as “real debt” it attains the uniquely spiritual ability to reproduce itself as if it were an organic being. Even now it remains the only “dead” substance in all the world to possess this power — “money begets money”. At this point money begins to take on a parodic aspect vis-à-vis religion — it seems that money wants to rival god, to become immanent spirit in the form of pure metaphysicality which nevertheless “rules the world”. Religion must take note of this blasphemous nature in money and condemn it as contra naturam. Money & religion enter opposition — one cannot serve God & Mammon simultaneously. But so long as religion continues to perform as the ideology of separation (the hierarchic State, expropriation, etc.) it can never really come to grips with the money-problem. Over & over again reformers arise within religion to chase the moneylenders from the temple, & always they return — in fact often enough the moneylenders become the Temple. (It’s certainly no accident that banks for along time aped the forms of religious architecture.) According to Weber it was Calvin who finally resolved the issue with his theological justification for “usury” — but this scarcely does credit to the real Protestants, like the Ranters & Diggers, who proposed that religion should once & for all enter into total opposition to money — thereby launching the Millennium. It seems more likely that the Enlightenment should take credit for resolving the problem — by jettisoning religion as the ideology of the ruling class & replacing it with rationalism (& “Classical Economics”). This formula however would fail to do justice to those real illuminati who proposed the dismantling of all ideologies of power & authority — nor would it help to explain why “official” religion failed to realize its potential as opposition at this point, & instead went on providing moral support for both State & Capital.

Under the influence of Romanticism however there arose — both inside & outside of “official” religion — a growing sense of spirituality as an alternative to the oppressive aspects of Liberalism & its intellectual/artistic allies. On the one hand this sense led to a conservative-revolutionary form of romantic reaction (e.g. Novalis) — but on the other hand it also fed into the old heretical tradition (which also began with the “rise of Civilization” as a movement of resistance to the theocracy of expropriation) — and found itself in a strange new alliance with rationalist radicalism (the nascent “left”); William Blake, for example, or the “Blaspheming Chapels” of Spence & his followers, represent this trend. The meeting of spirituality & resistance is not some surrealist event or anomaly to be smoothed out or rationalized by “History” — it occupies a position at the very root of radicalism; — and despite the militant atheism of Marx or Bakunin (itself a kind of mutated mysticism or “heresy”), the spiritual still remains inextricably involved with the “Good Old Cause” it helped create.

Some years ago Regis Debray wrote an article pointing out that despite the confidant predictions of 19th century materialism, religion had still perversely failed to go away — and that perhaps it was time for the Revolution to come to terms with this mysterious persistence. Coming from a Catholic culture Debray was interested in “Liberation Theology”, itself a projection of the old quasi-heresy of the “Poor” Franciscans & the recurrent rediscovery of “Bible communism”. Had he considered Protestant culture he might have remembered the 17th century, & looked for its true inheritance; if Moslem he could have evoked the radicalism of the Shiites or Ismailis, or the anti-colonialism of the 19th century “neo-Sufis”. Every religion has called forth its own inner antithesis over & over again; every religion has considered the implications of moral opposition to power; every tradition contains a vocabulary of resistance as well as capitulation to oppression. Speaking broadly one might say that up until now this “counter-tradition” — which is both inside & outside religion — has comprised a “suppressed content”. Debray’s question concerned its potential for realization. Liberation Theology lost most of its support within the church when it could no longer serve its function as rival (or accomplice) of Soviet Communism; & it could no longer serve this function because Communism collapsed. But some Liberation theologians proved to be sincere — and still they persist (as in Mexico); moreover, an entire submerged & related tendency within Catholicism, exemplified in the almost Scholastic anarchism of an Ivan Illich, lingers in the background. Similar tendencies could be identified within Orthodoxy (e.g. Bakunin), Protestantism, Judaism, Islam, and (in a somewhat different sense) Buddhism; moreover, most “surviving” indigenous forms of spirituality (e.g. Shamanism) or the Afro-american syncretisms can find common cause with various radical trends in the “major” religions on such issues as the environment, & the morality of anti-Capitalism. Despite elements of romantic reaction, various New Age & post-New-Age movements can also be associated with this rough category.

In a previous essay we have outlined reasons for believing that the collapse of Communism implies the triumph of its single opponent, Capitalism; that according to neo-liberal global propaganda only one world now exists; & that this political situation has grave implications for a theory of money as the virtual deity (autonomous, spiritualized, & all-powerful) of the single universe of meaning. Under these conditions everything that was once a third possibility (neutrality, withdrawal, counter-culture, the “Third World”, etc.) now must find itself in a new situation. There is no longer any “second” — how can there be a “third”? The “alternatives” have narrowed catastrophically. The One World is now in a position to crush everything which once escaped its ecstatic embrace — thanks to the unfortunate distraction of waging an essentially economic war against the Evil Empire. There is no more third way, no more neither/nor. Everything that is different will now be subsumed into the sameness of the One World — or else will discover itself in opposition to that world. Taking this thesis as given, we must now ask where religion will locate itself on this new map of “zones” of capitulation & resistance. If “revolution” has been freed of the incubus of Soviet oppression and is now once again a valid concept, are we finally in a position to offer a tentative answer to Debray’s question?

Taking “religion” as a whole, including even those forms such as shamanism that belong to Society rather than the State (in terms of Clastres’s anthropology); including polytheisms, monotheisms, & non-theisms; including mysticisms & heresies as well as orthodoxies, “reformed” churches, & “new religions” — obviously the subject under consideration lacks definition, borders, coherence; & it cannot be questioned because it would only generate a babel of responses rather than an answer. But “religion” does refer to something — call it a certain range of colors in the spectrum of human becoming — & as such it might be considered (at least pro tem) as a valid dialogic entity & as a theorizable subject. In the triumphant movement of Capital — in its processual moment so to speak — all religion can only be viewed as nullity, i.e. as a commodity to be packaged & sold, an asset to be stripped, or an opposition to be eliminated. Any idea (or ideology) that cannot be subsumed into capital’s “End of History” must be doomed. This includes both reaction & resistance — & it most certainly includes the non-separative “re-linking” (religio) of consciousness with “spirit” as unmediated imaginal self-determination & value-creation — the original goal of all ritual & worship. Religion in other words has lost all connection with worldly power because that power has migrated off-world — it has abandoned even the State & achieved the purity of apotheosis, like the God that “abandoned Anthony” in Cavafy’s poem. The few States (mostly Islamic) wherein religion holds power are located precisely within the ever-shrinking region of national opposition to Capital — (thus providing them with such potential strange bedfellows as Cuba!). Like all other “third possibilities” religion is faced with a new dichotomy: total capitulation, or else revolt. Thus the “revolutionary potential” of religion clearly appears — although it remains unclear whether resistance might take the form of reaction or radicalism — or indeed whether religion is not already defeated — whether its refusal to go away is that of an enemy, or a ghost.

In Russia & Serbia the Orthodox Church appears to have thrown in its lot with reaction against the New World Order & thus found new fellowship with its old Bolshevik oppressors, In Chechnya the Naqshbandi Sufi Order continues its centuries-old struggle against Russian imperialism. In Chiapas there’s a strange alliance of Mayan “pagans” & radical Catholics. Certain factions of American Protestantism have been driven to the point of paranoia & armed resistance (but even paranoids have some real enemies); while Native-american spirituality undergoes a small but miraculous revival — not a Ghost Shirt uprising this time, but a reasoned & profound stand against the hegemony of Capital’s monoculture. The Dalai Lama sometimes appears as the one “world leader” capable of speaking truth both to the remnants of the Communist oppression & the forces of Capitalist inhumanity; a “Free Tibet” might provide some kind of focus for an “interfaith” bloc of small nations & religious groups allied against the transcendental social darwinism of the consensus. Arctic shamanism may re-emerge as an “ideology” for the self-determination of certain new Siberian republics — and some New Religions (such as Western neo-paganism or the psychedelic cults) also belong by definition or default to the pole of opposition.

Islam has seen itself as the enemy of imperial Christianity & European imperialism almost from the moment of its inception. During the 20th century it functioned as a “third way” against both Communism & Capitalism, & in the context of the new One World it now constitutes by definition one of the very few existing mass movements which cannot be englobed into the unity of any would-be Consensus. Unfortunately the spearhead of resistance — “fundamentalism” — tends to reduce the complexity of Islam into an artificially coherent ideology — “Islamism” — which clearly fails to speak to the normal human desire for difference & complexity. Fundamentalism has already failed to concern itself with “empirical freedoms” which must constitute the minimal demands of the new resistance; for example, its critique of “usury” is obviously an inadequate response to the machinations of the IMF & World Bank. The “gates of Interpretation” of the Shariah must be re-opened — not slammed shut forever — and a fully-realized alternative to Capitalism must emerge from within the tradition. Whatever one may think of the Libyan Revolution of 1969 it has at least the virtue of an attempt to fuse the anarcho-syndicalism of ’68 with the neo-Sufi egalitarianism of the North African Orders, & to create a revolutionary Islam — something similar could be said of Ali Shariati’s “Shiite socialism” in Iran, which was crushed by the ulemocracy before it could crystallize into a coherent movement. The point is that Islam cannot be dismissed as the puritan monolith portrayed in the Capitalist media. If a genuine anti-Capitalist coalition is to appear in the world it cannot happen without Islam. The goal of all theory capable of any sympathy with Islam, I believe, is now to encourage its radical & egalitarian traditions & to substruct its reactionary & authoritarian modes of discourse. Within Islam there persist such mythic figures as the “Green Prophet” and hidden guide of the mystics, al-Khezr, who could easily become a kind of patron saint of Islamic environmentalism; while history offers such models as the great Algerian Sufi freedom-fighter Emir Abdul Qadir, whose last act (in exile in Damascus) was to protect Syrian Christians against the bigotry of the ulema. From outside Islam there exists the potential for “interfaith” movements concerned with ideals of peace, toleration, & resistance to the violence of post-secular post-rationalist “neo-liberalism” & its allies. In effect, then, the “revolutionary potential” of Islam is not yet realized — but it is real.

Since Christianity is the religion that “gave birth” (in Weberian terms) to Capitalism, its position in relation to the present apotheosis of Capitalism is necessarily more problematic than Islam’s. For centuries Christianity has been drawing in on itself & constructing a kind of make-believe world of its own, wherein some semblance of the social might persist (if only on Sundays) — even while it maintained the cozy illusion of some relation to power. As an ally of Capital (with its seeming benign indifference to the hypothesis of faith) against “Godless Communism”, Christianity could preserve the illusion of power — at least until five years ago. Now Capitalism no longer needs Christianity & the social support it enjoyed will soon evaporate. Already the Queen of England has had to consider stepping down as the head of the Anglican Church — & she is unlikely to be replaced by the CEO of some vast international zaibatsu! Money is god — God is really dead at last; Capitalism has realized a hideous parody of the Enlightenment ideal. But Jesus is a dying-&-resurrecting god — one might say he’s been through all this before. Even Nietzsche signed his last “insane” letter as “Dionysus & the Crucified One”; in the end it is perhaps only religion that can “overcome” religion. Within Christianity a myriad tendencies appear (or have persisted since the 17th century, like the Quakers) seeking to revive that radical messiah who cleansed the Temple & promised the Kingdom to the poor. In America for instance it would seem impossible to imagine a really successful mass movement against Capitalism (some form of “progressive populism”) without the participation of the churches. Again the theoretical task begins to clarify itself; one need not propose some vulgar kind of “entryism” into organized Christianity to radicalize it by conspiracy from within. Rather the goal would be to encourage the sincere & widespread potential for Christian radicalism either from within as an honest believer (however “existentialist” the faith!) or as an honest sympathizer from the outside.

To test this theorizing take an example — say Ireland (where I happen to be writing this). Given that Ireland’s “Problems” arise largely from sectarianism, clearly one must take an anti-clerical stance; in fact atheism would be at least emotionally appropriate. But the inherent ambiguity of religion in Irish history should be remembered: — there were moments when Catholic priests & laity supported resistance or revolution, & there were moments when Protestant ministers & laity supported resistance or revolution. The hierarchies of the churches have generally proven themselves reactionary — but hierarchy is not the same thing as religion. On the Protestant side we have Wolfe Tone & the United Irishmen — a revolutionary “interfaith” movement. Even today in Northern Ireland such possibilities are not dead; anti-sectarianism is not just a socialist ideal but also a Christian ideal. On the Catholic side… a few years ago I met a radical priest at a pagan festival in the Aran Islands, a friend of Ivan Illich. When I asked him, “What exactly is your relation to Rome?” he answered, “Rome? Rome is the enemy.” Rome has lost its stranglehold on Ireland in the last few years, brought down by anti-puritan revolt & internal scandal. It would be incorrect to say that the Church’s power has shifted to the State, unless we also add that the government’s power has shifted to Europe, & Europe’s power has shifted to international capital. The meaning of Catholicism in Ireland is up for grabs. Over the next few years we might expect to see both inside & outside the Church a kind of revival of “Celtic Christianity” — devoted to resistance against pollution of the environment both physical & imaginal, & therefore committed to anti-Capitalist struggle. Whether this trend would lead to an open break with Rome and the formation of an independent church — who knows? Certainly the trend will include or at least influence Protestantism as well. Such a broad-based movement might easily find its natural political expression in socialism or even in anarcho-socialism, & would serve a particularly useful function as a force against sectarianism & the rule of the clerisy. Thus even in Ireland it would seem that religion may have a revolutionary future.

I expect these ideas will meet with very little acceptance within traditionally atheist anarchism or the remnants of “dialectical materialism”. Enlightenment radicalism has long refused to recognize any but remote historical roots within religious radicalism. As a result, the Revolution threw out the baby (“non-ordinary consciousness”) along with the bathwater of the Inquisition or of puritan repression. Despite Sorel’s insistence that the Revolution needed a “myth”, it preferred to bank everything on “pure reason” instead. But spiritual anarchism & communism (like religion itself) have failed to go away. Indeed, by becoming an anti-Religion, radicalism had recourse to a kind of mysticism of its own, complete with ritual, symbolism, & morality. Bakunin’s remark about God — that if he existed we would have to kill him — would after all pass for the purest orthodoxy within Zen Buddhism! The psychedelic movement, which offered a kind of “scientific” (or at least experiential ) verification of non-ordinary consciousness, led to a degree of rapprochement between spirituality & radical politics — & the trajectory of this movement may have only begun. If religion has “always” acted to enslave the mind or to reproduce the ideology of the ruling class, it has also “always” involved some form of entheogenesis (“birth of the god within”) or liberation of consciousness; some form of utopian proposal or promise of “heaven on earth”; and some form of militant & positive action for “social justice” as God’s plan for the creation. Shamanism is a form of “religion” that (as Clastres showed) actually institutionalizes spirituality against the emergence of hierarchy & separation — & all religions possess at least a shamanic trace.

Every religion can point to a radical tradition of some sort. Taoism once produced the Yellow Turbans — or for that matter the Tongs that collaborated with anarchism in the 1911 revolution. Judaism produced the “anarcho-zionism” of Martin Buber & Gersholm Scholem (deeply influenced by Gustav Landauer & other anarchists of 1919), which found its most eloquent & paradoxical voice in Walter Benjamin. Hinduism gave birth to the ultra-radical Bengali Terrorist Party — & also to M. Gandhi, the modern world’s only successful theorist of non-violent revolution. Obviously anarchism & communism will never come to terms with religion on questions of authority & property; & perhaps one might say that “after the Revolution” such questions will remain to be resolved. But it seems clear that without religion there will be no radical revolution; the Old Left & the (old) New Left can scarcely fight it alone. The alternative to an alliance now is to watch while Reaction co-opts the force of religion & launches a revolution without us. Like it or not, some sort of pre-emptive strategy is required. Resistance demands a vocabulary in which our common cause can be discussed; hence these sketchy proposals.

Even assuming we could classify all the above under the rubric of admirable sentiments, we would still find ourselves far from any obvious program of action. Religion is not going to “save” us in this sense (perhaps the reverse is true!) — in any case religion is faced with the same perplexity as any other former “third position”, including all forms of radical non-authoritarianism & anti-Capitalism. The new totality & its media appear so pervasive as to fore-doom all programs of revolutionary content, since every “message” is equally subject to subsumption in the “medium” that is Capital itself. Of course the situation is hopeless — but only stupidity would take this as reason for despair, or for the terminal boredom of defeat. Hope against hope — Bloch’s revolutionary hope — belongs to a “utopia” that is never wholly absent even when it is least present; & it belongs as well to a religious sphere in which hopelessness is the final sin against the holy spirit: — the betrayal of the divine within — the failure to become human. “Karmic duty” in the sense of the Bhagavad Gita — or in the sense of “revolutionary duty” — is not something imposed by Nature, like gravity, or death. It is a free gift of the spirit — one can accept or refuse it — & both positions are perilous. To refuse is to run the risk of dying without having lived. To accept is an even more dangerous but far more interesting possibility. A version of Pascal’s Wager — not on the immortality of the soul this time, but simply on its sheer existence.

To use religious metaphor (which we’ve tried so far to avoid) the millennium began five years before the end of the century, when One World came into being & banished all duality. From the Judao-Christiano-Islamic perspective however this is the false millennium of the “Anti-Christ”; which turns out not to be a “person” (except in the world of Archetypes perhaps) but an impersonal entity, a force contra naturam — entropy disguised as life. In this view the reign of iniquity must & will be challenged in the true millennium, the advent of the messiah. But the messiah is also not a single person in the world — rather, it is a collectivity in which each individuality is realized & thus (again metaphorically or imaginally) immortalized. The “people-as-messiah” do not enter into the homogenous sameness nor the infernal separation of entropic Capitalism, but into the difference & presence of revolution — the struggle, the “holy war”. On this basis alone can we begin to work on a theory of reconciliation between the positive forces of religion & the cause of resistance. What we are offered here is simply the beginning of the beginning.

Dublin, Sept. 1, 1996



Poetry: Anna Akhmatova



When, in the night, I wait for her, impatient,

Life seems to me, as hanging by a thread.

What just means liberty, or youth, or approbation,

When compared with the gentle piper’s tread?

And she came in, threw out the mantle’s edges,

Declined to me with a sincere heed.

I say to her, “Did you dictate the Pages

Of Hell to Dante?” She answers, “Yes, I did.”

The Grey-Eyed King

Hail! Hail to thee, o, immovable pain!

The young grey-eyed king had been yesterday slain.

This autumnal evening was stuffy and red.

My husband, returning, had quietly said,

“He’d left for his hunting; they carried him home;

They’d found him under the old oak’s dome.

I pity the queen. He, so young, past away!…

During one night her black hair turned to grey.”

He found his pipe on a warm fire-place,

And quietly left for his usual race.

Now my daughter will wake up and rise –

Mother will look in her dear grey eyes…

And poplars by windows rustle as sing,

“Never again will you see your young king…”

Our Native Earth


There are not any people in the world –

So simple, lofty, tearless — like us.


We do not carry it in lockets on the breast,

And do not cry about it in poems,

It does not wake us from the bitter rest,

And does not seem to us like Eden promised.

In our hearts, we never try to treat

This as a subject for the bargain row,

While being ill, unhappy, spent on it,

We even fail to see it or to know.

Yes, this dirt on the feet suits us fairly,

Yes, this crunch on the teeth suits us just,

And we trample it nightly and daily –

This unmixed and non-structural dust.

But we lay into it and become it alone,

And therefore call this earth so freely — my own.

“You, Who Was Born…”


You, who was born for poetry’s creation,

Do not repeat the sayings of the ancients.

Though, maybe, our Poetry, itself,

Is just a single beautiful citation.

“They Didn’t Meet Me…”


They didn’t meet me, roamed,

On steps with lanterns bright.

I entered quiet home

In murky, pail moonlight.

Under a lamp’s green halo,

With smile of kept in rage,

My friend said, “Cinderella,

Your voice is very strange…”

A cricket plays its fiddle;

A fire-place grew black.

Oh, someone took my little

White shoe as a keep-sake,

And gave me three carnations,

While casting dawn eyes –.

My sins for accusations,

You couldn’t be disguised.

And heart hates to believe in

The time, that’s close too,

When he will ask for women

To try on my white shoe.


Have A Good One!

Event Horizons: Dreaming Future

Some kind of dialog is now going on between individual human beings and the sum total of human knowledge and…nothing can stop it.—Terence McKenna

On The Music Box EarthRites Radio Testing! Both High and Low ends. Cut and Paste these into your media player. New Stuff on Later Today! for DSL/Cable for Dial-Up

So Radio Testing has been going on this weekend, and various projects. Had a great Thanksgiving, and then celebrated our friend Randy’s 50th Birthday on Friday night… lots of people in and out, generally a very good time for all this weekend.

I had long been fascinated with a series of collages that I had seen in various publications/on record covers and on-line over the years. Thanks to Derek Robinson, who dropped The Legend of the Great Dismal Maroons into my e-mailbox, I now know who was the artist of these various bits, “James Koehnline. If you have seen a Bill Laswell cover, or Hakim Beys’ “Taz” you would recognize his works. We are featuring his art and his poem/article today.



On The Menu

The Links

Bill Laswell Axiom Sound System Musical Freezone


The Legend of the Great Dismal Maroons

Art: James Koehnline


The Links:

Drunken Swedish moose drowns after fermented apple binge…

Zombies Sue Police…

The first remarkable close-up pictures of animals in the womb

From Rob on TribeNet: Virtual Aurora in Finland…


Bill Laswell Axiom Sound System Musical Freezone 06 (part1)

Bill Laswell Axiom Sound System Musical Freezone 06 (part2)

Bill Laswell Axiom Sound System Musical Freezone 06 (part3)

Bill Laswell Axiom Sound System Musical Freezone 06 (part4)



The Subjugation of a Ghost

A young wife fell sick and was about to die. “I love you so much,” she told her husband, “I do not want to leave you. Do not go from me to any other woman. If you do, I will return as a ghost and cause you endless trouble.”

Soon the wife passed away. The husband respected her last wish for the first three months, but then he met another woman and fell in love with her. They became engaged to be married.

Immediately after the engagement a ghost appeared every night to the man, blaming him for not keeping his promise. The ghost was clever too. She told him exactly what had transpired between himself and his new sweetheart. Whenever he gave his fiancee a present, the ghost would describe it in detail. She would even repeat conversations, and it so annoyed the man that he could not sleep. Someone advised him to take his problem to a Zen master who lived close to the village. At length, in despair, the poor man went to him for help.

“Your former wife became a ghost and knows everything you do, ” commented the master. “Whatever you do or say, whatever you give your beloved, she knows. She must be a very wise ghost. Really you should admire such a ghost. The next time she appears, bargain with her. Tell her that she knows so much you can hide nothing from her, and that if she will answer you one question, you promise to break your engagement and remain single.”

“What is the question I must ask her?” inquired the man.

The master replied: “Take a large handful of soy beans and ask her exactly how many beans you hold in your hand. If she cannot tell you, you will know that she is only a figment of your imagination and will trouble you no longer.”

The next night, when the ghost appeared the man flattered her and told her that she knew everything.

“Indeed,” replied the ghost, “and I know you went to see that Zen master today.”

“And since you know so much,” demanded the man, “tell me how many beans I hold in this hand!”

There was no longer any ghost to answer the question.


No Attachment to Dust

Zengetsu, a Chinese master of the T’ang dynasty, wrote the following advice for his pupils:

Living in the world yet not forming attachments to the dust of the world is the way of a true Zen student.

When witnessing the good action of another encourage yourself to follow his example. Hearing of the mistaken action of another, advise yourself not to emulate it.

Even though alone in a dark room, be as if you were facing a noble guest. Express your feelings, but become no more expressive than your true nature.

Poverty is your treasure. Never exchange it for an easy life.

A person may appear a fool and yet not be one. He may only be guarding his wisdom carefully.

Virtues are the fruit of self-discipline and do not drop from heaven of themselves as does rain or snow.

Modesty is the foundation of all virtues. Let your neighbors discover you before you make yourself known to them.

A noble heart never forces itself forward. Its words are as rare gems, seldom displayed and of great value.

To a sincere student, every day is a fortunate day. Time passes but he never lags behind. Neither glory nor shame can move him.

Censure yourself, never another. Do not discuss right and wrong.

Some things, though right, were considered wrong for generations. Since the value of righteousness may be recognized after centuries, there is no need to crave an immediate appreciation.

Live with cause and leave results to the great law of the universe. Pass each day in peaceful contemplation.


The Legend of the Great Dismal Maroons

(Swamp Rats of the World Unite! A Secret History of “The Other America”)

James Koehnline

I. Oh, My Brothers

Freemasonry arose as a white, middle-to-upper class male conspiracy against God and King which sought to establish a new deal of the ages, a wholly rational infrastructure, administered by white male land-owners of the merchant class, so beautifully logical in its operations as to cause order to reign forever, in spite of human nature. White because the child-races were not ready. Male because logic was alien to women. Landowners because they alone knew responsibility. Merchants because they knew how to balance the books. The celestial clockwork of the church was to be anchored firmly in the earth. The royal monopoly on nobility was to be smashed and redistributed among all who could pass the entrance exam and return the secret handshake. So constituted, Freemasonry was not so much a body as a big fat head in search of a muscular mass to ride into the perfectible future. It succeeded with a vengeance in realizing the glorious dream: A racist, sexist, reductivist, venal order, headed by lawyers and accountants; an order so universally established that its logic is almost inescapable. Nearly everyone serves the planetary work and war machine, and a great many subscribe to its religion of profits and progress, persuaded by its logic– Ya gotta work to survive. Freemasonry, hybrid seed of the Renaissance quest to reassemble the potsherds of the Golden Age, spent its l7th-Century adolescence sifting through sand-piles of symbols, searching for portents, seeking the future in the detritus of the past. America opened her arms and offered herself as an only-slightly-smudged slate on which to write the New Jerusalem. In the eighteenth century, after Newton fused heaven and earth, the project began to seem more practical than philosophical. Gravity was the key by which their mad celestial schematics could be drawn down to enshroud the earth, to impose the map upon the unruly territory. No matter that the fit was imprecise, that the great, green riot of life was forever poking through the gaps, mocking from beyond the edges. No matter that our movement and speech were infected with its mad jazz patterns. When you live IN the map you hardly notice these things, any more than you notice the nameless ones silently slipping beyond the pale, leaving the map behind. Who cares who goes there, who goes nowhere?

II. Beyond The Pale.

In 1717 the Grand Lodge of England was formed and the “respectable” half of masonry began pushing the “irregulars” off the map. Tradesmen, including any stone masons who might have been in Freemasonry, were among the exiles. In 1741 members of the black-listed lodges staged a wild masonic parade in London to ridicule the Grand Lodge. They called themselves Scald Miserable Masons. By this time numbers of exiled masons were washing up on the American shores- convicts, vagrants, rebels, Irish- sentenced or sold into plantation servitude from which they escaped at their earliest convenience. Most headed west of the seaboard colonies, keeping ahead of the advancing map, (the great wagon road making its way, north to south and west,) joining the multi-racial maroon communities of the South Carolina hills and elsewhere, some whole communities calling themselves Freemasons. But we may safely assume that at least a few of these Scald Miserable Masons were guided to the secret maroon capital of the upper south, there to become citizen-warriors of the Great Dismal Swamp, on the Atlantic coast where Virginia and Carolina meet, the heart of the New World.

III. The Other America

Ever since 1524 when the Spanish founded the first European (and African) settlement in what is now the U.S., slaves had been walking away from bondage, joining or forging alliances with friendly Indian nations. In the early days most of these Maroons were white- at least from among the English colonies- Irish and poor English convicts, indentured servants and slaves. There were also a great many Americans who had been taken as slaves and escaped, only to find their tribes decimated. The growth of the African slave trade brought increasing numbers of Africans into the Maroon camps. In 1586 Sir Francis Drake, returning north from the wars with Spain in the Caribbean, carried a shipload of former Spanish slaves- 300 South American Indians, 200 Guinea Coast Africans, 200 Moors- as a sort of gift to the English colonists on Roanoke Island, (Raleigh’s second attempt to establish a colony there). No sooner had they arrived than a great storm blew up, frightening the English back to England with Drake. When they returned a year later to try again they were dismayed to find that their servants had deserted, joined the Indians on the mainland. A year later, when Raleigh’s ships returned to reprovision the colony the white colonists had also deserted. Raleigh’s agents could find no trace of them on the mainland and the Indians just shrugged their shoulders. Perhaps they were hiding out in the nearly impenetrable Great Dismal Swamp nearby. Perhaps, four hundred years ago, these Maroons of four continents held a big pow-wow, dedicating themselves to the fight against slavery even then As the English colonies up and down the Atlantic seaboard bustled with new settlement and commerce, North Carolina, the ancient Albemarle, was strangely silent. The lords proprietors collected enough rent to keep themselves comfortable and left the inhabitants to their own devices. The Tuscarora nation still exercised considerable influence in the region, and the settlers, it seems, had no objection to this arrangement. The settlers were, by and large, Maroons. By 1650 they had their own government under Nathaniel Batts, who converted to the Tuscarora religion and was accepted as an honored member of the tribe. The settlers had full representation in the governing councils of the Tuscarora nation. New fugitives arrived regularly to join them. They lived at their ease, hunting, fishing, trapping, adventuring together and generally celebrating their good fortune to live free and among friends. By 1708 political forces in England had determined that the time had arrived to develop North Carolina as a commercial plantation slavery colony. This necessitated a full-scale war against the old settlers, which was followed by a full-scale war with their allies, the Tuscarora nation. The British declared victory and established their colony. The Maroons never admitted defeat. They retreated to the depths of the Great Dismal Swamp and from their sanctuary waged a 160 year guerrilla war against slavery. In the end, they won. They fought alongside the British under Lord Duninore in the revolution, because Dunmore promised an end to slavery and gave them uniforms with a special sash that read “Freedom For Slaves”. They fought as “Buffalo Soldiers” on the side of the Union in the Civil War, holding all the surrounding territory without army support. In between, they sent out continuous raiding parties to free slaves and discourage slavers. They established an extensive communication system throughout the upper south through a network of plantation preachers and conjuremen and women. The swamp had been considered a holy place by the Indians since time immemorial. It was now doubly’so for the slaves and Maroons. There were many Maroon enclaves up and down the coast in the swamps and pine barrens but none larger or more militant than the Great Dismal. Here was the original Rainbow Coalition. With Emancipation they left the swamp to make a life in the open, but their triumph was short-lived. Some were absorbed into the African-American community, some went to the reservations and a few passed for white, but the majority had no desire to be so segregated. This was true of the other maroon enclaves as well. They emerged to find slavery being replaced by a rigid caste system that had no place for them. They were marginalized, isolated and despised. Some even went back to the swamps. They were our Dark Secret, an enormous blind-spot in our collective psyche. Within twenty years liberal progressive Christians had launched a “scientific” crusade to deal with the problem:the American Eugenics movement. By the early years of this century they were promoting a Final Solution- compulsory sterilization. In 1907 Indiana was the first state to pass a compulsory sterilization law. It was aimed at a nomadic, tri-racial tribe in that state, the Tribe of Ishmael. Rather than submit to this the Ishmaelites dispersed. This law, which came to be known as “The Indiana Plan,” seemed like such a great idea that within twenty years 29 states had adopted similar Eugenic laws and the Indiana Plan had been adopted by seven European countries, most notably Germany, where it served as the legal foundation for an escalating series of racial laws that led, ultimately, to the Nazi Final Solution. At Nuremburg after the war there was much debate over whether or not forced sterilization could be prosecuted as a war crime. Of course, they decided it could not be, as it was still legal in the U.S. Today the descendants of the Maroons are still with us, some still living in the cracks, many more have blended into the crowds of the nameless. You may be one, in blood, or spirit, or both. Search the dark, rough recesses of your heart and mind. See if you can find traces of that Other America, the one that did not build its celestial city on a foundation of cruelty, murder and deceit, but gathered the exiles of four continents in its Great Dismal City of Refugee.

IV. Toward The Swamp – The Way Home

Trapped between faith and fear, progressive liberalism is adrift in the current of modernity which eats away at faith and builds fear, moving toward an end which is only that: Finis. Lacking an articulate alternative, lacking, too, the communal basis of alienation, ours is a vague search for something which is missing. What is it? The counter-culture has always been just that. A negation bound up with what it rejects; the underside of liberalism. Its notions of human communion are tied to the immediate realization of something very like the old liberal utopia- total private liberty and gratification of desire. That old utopia is wholly blind to the nature of communion, rooted in self-loathing and fear of the other; hostility to the ego, a desire to blot it out; fraternity as alliance of embattlement again. The possibility of citizenship has been eclipsed, and, having been eclipsed, it waits to be bloom anew. It awaits a new polity, and in the dismal swamp heart of the “inner” city something stirs. Still we hide our bones for fear of being born because birth’s first lesson is loneliness. To build a new city among these multitudes of strangers we must learn to recognize our fellow citizens when chance shall throw us together, and find the means for affirming our mutual “patriotism.” We are obliged to set an example, to be the preachers and poets and tellers of tales of the great dismal city of refuge. We must steer clear of the Jeffersonian fraternal ideal which, in the name of unity, blows up such a cloud of sentiment as to obscure a dark and violent city. We must avoid charity as the plague it is, with its ethic of condescension. We must remember that war is no medicine for loneliness. Try love-laughter-song-dance, the tonics, before resort to narcotics and final solutions. In the lonely crowds of the urban wilderness there is mingled a saving remnant, a band of brothers and sisters, mostly unknown to each other, whose lavish hearts still accommodate the possibility of The Other America- who are holding the pass, so to speak, until we are ready, each in his or her own time, to go back over all the rough, dark places, to try, and finally, to fathom our old love-America. We must make the pilgrimage of Huck Finn, back to the beginning, divesting ourselves of false romance, disciplining our imagination in the school of nature, seeking fraternity with the strong victim, one to one, with the strength of personal character and devotion such that both of us are stretched toward our full stature. Then we shall find ourselves in the Great Dismal City of Refuge, candidates for citizenship. If we have learned well to recognize ignorance and dependence in ourselves and the world at large, and if we have learned to draw on the inexhaustible well of humor within which laughs aside our fears and pretensions, cheering us in our search for a true humanity, then we shall be the shining citizens of the Great Dismal City of Refuge, brothers and sisters in the global swamp-rat communion.


Biography – James Koehnline – Born in Columbus, Ohio, Dec. 6, 1955.

Childhood in Flint, Michigan, Cleveland, Ohio and Harrisburg, Pennsylvania Family moved to Chicago area in 1970, where I began to think of myself as an artist. Inherited my father’s love of surrealism, fantastic art, William Blake, science fiction, etc., to which I added psychedelia, anarchism, sound collage, Eastern philosophy, etc.

Hung around with Chicago Surrealist Group during their International Exhibition at Gallery Black Swan in 1976, where I premiered my animated film, “Dogs Shall Eat Their Masters”. Took a class with Harry Bouras in 1978 and he remained a friend and mentor until his death in 1990.

In the early 80s my old friend Scott Marshall drew me into radio work (WZRD) and a noisy band we called the Burden of Friendship. For a while the band’s extended family formed the North Shore Industrial League, which held late-night noise orgies at a derelict steel foundry.

In 1985 I got together with six activist-artist friends to rent the huge top floor of an old department store in the Logan Square neighborhood and open the Axe Street Arena, a gallery and performance space for art and politics, with plenty of room left over for studios, and living space for 9+.

While curating the Haymarket Centennial International Mail Art Exhibition with Ron Sakolsky, I made the acquaintance if the mysterious Hakim Bey. I have been collaborating and conspiring with him ever since. Through Bey I was introduced to and joined the Brooklyn-based publishing collective Autonomedia, and the Moorish Orthodox Church. I worked as a librarian for three and a half years, spending much of my time at work doing historical research which eventually became the book GONE TO CROATAN, and most of my time away from work creating hundreds of black and white collages for the zine scene, 46 of which were collected in the book MAGPIE REVERIES.

In 1991, my girlfriend (now my wife), Andrea Frank and I moved to Seattle for a change of scenery. Here I got started doing book and magazine covers and illustrations, cooking up the Autonomedia Calendar of Jubilee Saints, working with Antero Alli on his quarterly journal of imaginative trouble, Talking Raven, doing a continuing series of CD covers for various projects of Bill Laswell’s, and trying to make ends meet by dealing in used books and painting houses.

In 1995 I got a computer and started working in Photoshop.

Mr. Watts I Presume…


The Edition that took so much more… I have been working on the Earthrites site, and this entry for 2 days. Organizing has never been me forte’ and I must admit the dyslexic side of me usually wins in this situation.

Lots of friends in and out, some leaving for the south others camping for coffee. More later, must post now…




Notes of Interest Re:

Going through those changes and all that

New additions to the current manifestation of…

I am happy to say that we are moving further along in the works of Diane Darlings’ Book “The Red Queen”.

Chapter 2 has been added, “The Harvest Queen”.

If you get a chance check Chapter 2 of “The Red Queen” at: Earthrites Magazine…It is a very good read, and picking up good momentum.

There are new additions in the Poetry Section as well:

I would like to welcome Will Penna to the EarthRites Poetry Section!

Will is another writer of note, you can find his works in The Entheogen Review, to CSP, and various journals of the emerging Culture.

He brings some 40 plus years of his poetry to our great delight.

We’ve added a John Keats page, and another addition as well to the Poetry Resources Section is The Pan Page; Lyrics and Poetry from the 5th Century BC to the 20th Century. I think you might enjoy these new pages.

Please check them out at: EarthRites Poetry Resources

With that all taken care of, we are about to get our first snow here in Portland for the year!

On Todays’ Menu

The Links

Pink Floyd – Any Colour You Like / Eclipse

George Frederick Watts – Biography

The Eric-Fine of Lugh

Poetry For A November Afternoon: George William Russell aka A.E.

Art: George Frederick Watts


The Links:

Clark Heinrich: Magické houby v náboženství a alchymii

Alien Abduction: real if only imagined

Tomb find reveals pre-Inca city

Stoners have problems organising world’s biggest joint


Pink Floyd – Any Colour You Like / Eclipse


George Frederick Watts

Painter of portraits, historical and allegorical subjects and sculptor. Watts lived at 33 Upper Norton Street (1837); 1 Clipstone Street (1838); 14 Clipstone Street (1840). After a long trip to Italy, Watts visited Henry Thoby Prinsep and his wife, Sara, at Little Holland House, Kensington, supposedly for a short stay in 1851, but he lived there until 1875. Their home was a Bohemian centre for artists and writers like Tennyson, Julia Margaret Cameron and several young Pre-Raphaelites. Watts had been depressed when he moved in, but the Prinsep home provided him with a secure environment in which he gained confidence and he painted many portraits of the visiting eminent Victorians.

In 1865 Watts met the Manchester patron Charles Rickards, who began to buy his non-narrative symbolic paintings. This side of Watt’s work was not revealed to the public until the first Grosvenor Gallery exhibition of 1877, at which he exhibited the large version of G. F. Watts, Love and Death (z.243) (z243). It was at this same exhibition that JW exhibited Nocturne in Black and Gold: The Falling Rocket (YMSM 170), provoking Ruskin’s criticism. Watts’ praise of At the Piano (YMSM 24), encouraged Luke Ionides’ father to commission Portrait of Luke A. Ionides (YMSM 32). Probably in December 1896, JW drew Caricature of G. F. Watts (M.1483), a reference to Watt’s G. F. Watts, The Minotaur (z.242) (z242), which was exhibited in his retrospective show at the New Gallery in 1896, where it attracted little comment.

Watts lived at Melbury Road, London, and in 1881 he turned his studio into a gallery. Watts’s status (and an indication of his personality) is underlined by his refusal of a baronetcy in 1885 and again in 1894. However, he accepted the new Order of Merit in 1902. In 1891 he settled at Limnerslease, in Compton, Surrey, with his second wife. A craftswoman in her own right, Mary Watts set up a pottery, designing and decorating in an Art Nouveau style the Mortuary Chapel dedicated to Watts’s memory. The nearby Watts Gallery contains a representative collection of his works.



The Eric-Fine of Lugh

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The chiefs of the Tuatha De Danaan thronged round Lugh on the Hill of Usna. Lugh stood on the summit, and the Sword of Light was bare in his hand: all the hill below him shone with a radiance like white silver.

“Chiefs,” cried Lugh, “behold the Sword! Ye should have three great jewels to match it.

Where are the Spear of Victory, the Cauldron of Plenty, and the Stone of Destiny?”

The Tuatha De Danaan bowed their heads and veiled their faces before Lugh, and answered:

“The Fomor have taken the Cauldron of Plenty and the Spear of Victory from us. Ask the Earth of Ireland for the Stone.”

Lugh whirled the Sword till it became a glancing wheel of light, and cried:

“O Earth of Ireland, sacred and beloved, have you the Lia Fail, the Stone of Destiny?”

A strong sweet music welled up from the earth, and every stone and every leaf and every drop of water shone with light till all Ireland seemed one vast crystal, white and shining. The white light changed to rose, as it had been a ruby; and the ruby to sapphire; and the sapphire to emerald the emerald to opal; the opal to amethyst; and the amethyst to diamond, white and radiant with every colour.

“It is enough! ” cried Lugh. “I am well answered: the earth of Ireland has kept the Stone.”

“O Chiefs,” he said, “raise up your foreheads. Though ye have not the jewels ye have the scars of battle-combat, and ye have endured sorrow and hardship for ye have known what it is to be exiles in your own land. Let us swear brotherhood now by the Sword and the Stone that we may utterly destroy the Fomor and cleanse the world. Hold up your hands and swear, as I and those who came with me from Tir-nan-Oge will swear, and as the Sacred Land will swear, that we may have one mind and one heart and one desire amongst us all.”

Then the De Danaans lifted up their hands and swore a great oath of brotherhood with the Earth and with the hosts of the Shining Ones from Tir-nan-Oge. They swore by the Sword of Light and the Stone of Destiny; by the Fire that is over the earth; and the Fire that is under the earth; and the Fire in the heart of heroes. They swore to have one mind, one heart, and one desire, until the Fomor should be destroyed. Lugh swore the same oath, and all his shining comrades from Tir-nan-Oge swore it. The hills and valleys and plains and rivers and lakes and forests of Ireland swore it–they all fastened the bond of brotherhood on themselves.

“Let us go hence,” said Lugh, when the oath was ended, ” and make ready for the great battle.”

At his word all the chiefs departed, each going his own road.

Cian, the father of Lugh, was crossing the plain of Louth that is called Moy Myeerhevna: he lifted up his eyes and saw the three sons of Turann coming towards him. There was black hatred between himself and the Sons of Turann, and he was minded not to meet them. He took the form of a wild boar and hid himself with a herd of swine. Brian, Ur, and Urcar, the sons of Turann, saw him do it, and anger leaped in them.

“Come forth!” they cried. “Show your face to us.”

Cian did not come forth.

Ur and Urcar changed themselves into hounds and hunted the strange boar from the herd.

Brian made a cast of his spear at it, and when Cian felt the wound, he cried out:

“Hold! Brian, son of Turann: do not slay me in the form of a pig!”

“Take your own form.”

Cian took his own form, and said:

“Ye see my face now, Sons of Turann, with blood on it. Well ye knew me from the first, and well I knew you–Oath-Breakers!”

“The bands of death on your poisonous tongue!” said Urcar. “Take back your word

“I will not take it back, Sons of the Adder. Slay me! and every drop of blood will cry out on you–your very weapons will cry Out on you in the Place of Assembly.”

“We will slay you with weapons that cannot cry out,” said the Sons of Turann, and they lifted great stones and rocks from the earth and stoned Cian till he was dead.

The Sons of Turann buried the body of Cian the depth of a man’s height in the ground, but the earth refused to hide the body and cast it up again before them. They buried it a second time, and a second time the earth refused to hide the body and cast it up before them. Six times they buried it, and six times the earth cast it up. They buried it the seventh time, and that time the earth made no sign. The body of Cian was hidden. The Sons of Turann hastened away from the place and went to the court of King Nuada to show themselves with the other warriors.

The earth sent a little wind to Lugh LauveFauda. It touched his face and eyelids; it lifted the thick curls of his hair; it touched his hand as a hound touches the hand of a beloved master, and Lugh knew the wind had come for him. He followed it till he reached the place where Cian had been slain.

“O Lugh,” said the earth, “the bond of brotherhood is broken. The Sons of Turann have slain your father. Look what a poor torn thing I cover!”

The Earth laid bare the body of Cian. Lugh looked at the mangled blood-stained body, and at the trampled dishonoured earth, and in his eyes two tears slowly gathered. He shook them away, and then he saw that the earth had sent up a little well of pure water close to him. He bent over it.

“O Earth,” he said, “forgive the broken bond!”

The little spring in the heart of the well leaped in answer, and nine crystal bubbles rose through the water. Lugh. made a cup of his two hands and lifted water from the well. He sprinkled it on the torn earth, and greenness came again to the trampled grass. He sprinkled it on the bruised body of his father, and it became whole and white again.

“O Earth,” he said, “most noble and beloved, I will avenge your wrong.”

“O Father,” he said, “you shall yet send help for the battle, and the hands of your slayers shall bring it. ‘Tis not wearisome to wait for news of victory in Moy Mell, for all the winds that blow there are winds of beauty, and now you have the crimson flowers beneath your feet and the radiance of the Silver Fleece about you.”

He laid the body of Cian tenderly in the earth and went to seek the slayers at the court of King Nuada.

Nuada sat in his royal seat. There was a white light about him as it had been a fleece of silver, and round his head a wheel of light pulsed and beat with changing colours. His face was joyous and the faces of the Tuatha De Danaan were joyous. The great door of the dun was open and De Danaan chiefs came and went through. it.

Lugh came into the dun and with him came such heaviness of heart that joy was shaken from the assembly.

“Why is the hero-light gone from your forehead, O Lugh, Ildana?” said Nuada.

“It is because I have seen the dead body of my father–and the earth trampled into mire and blood.”

The light went from the head of Nuada and he veiled his face. All the chiefs bowed their heads and raised the three sorrowful cries of the keene. Only the three sons of Turann remained with haughty eyes and unbowed heads.

“O Wind of Misfortune,” cried the chiefs, “that brought the Fomor at the first to us!”

“It was not from the Fomor, O Chiefs, that Cian, Son of Dian-Cecht, got death–the hands that slew him have sworn the oath of brotherhood.”

“Name his slayers!” cried Nuada; “and though they be our noblest and most loved–though they be even the Sons of Turann–they shall perish utterly!”

“The slayers are the three sons of Turann!” Nuada looked on the three Sons of Turann, and when he saw they had no words to answer Lugh his heart failed him, for the three were the mightiest and most beautiful of his warriors and there was no one with more hero-gifts than Brian unless it were the Ildana himself.

“Let them perish! ” said Nuada.

“Nay, King of the Tuatha De Danaan,” said Lugh,” let them make good the battle-loss! Let them pay eric for the warrior they have slain!”

“You are well named the Ildana,” said the King, “for truly wisdom is with you!” and then he said to the Sons of Turann. “Will ye make good the battle-loss? Will ye pay eric for Cian, son of Dian-Cecht? “

They answered: “We will pay eric: let Lugh Lauve Fauda ask it of us.”

“I ask three apples, a pig-skin, a spear, a chariot with two horses, seven swine, a hound, a cooking-spit, and three shouts on a hill.”

“You have stretched out your hand for a small eric-fine, Lugh the Long-Handed.”

“I have not stretched out my hand for a small fine, Brian, son of Turann. The apples I ask are three golden apples from the tree that is watched by sleepless dragons in the Eastern half of the world. The skin I ask is the skin of that pig before whom rivers of water turned into rivers of wine. The skin has power to turn whatever water it touches into wine, and if it be wrapped about a man wounded to death it will give him back his life and make his body clean and whole again. It is the jewel in a great king’s treasure-house, and ye will not find it easy to get. The spear I ask is the fiery victory-giver that is kept in times of peace with its head sunk in a cauldron of magic water lest it should destroy the world. The chariot I ask is the chariot of Dobar: it outshines all chariots that have been made or shall be made. The horses yoked to it do not draw back their feet from the sea-waves: their going is as lordly on the wide plain of the sea as it is on the land. The seven pigs I ask are the pigs of Asal, the King of the Golden Pillars–though they be killed and eaten to-day, they will be alive and well tomorrow, and whoso eats of them shall never know what it is to lack strength. The hound is the hound Failinis. He is brighter than the sun at mid-summer. The beasts of the forest are astonished at the sight of him: they have no strength to contend against him. The cooking-spit is a guarded flame. Fifty-three women keep it in the island of Caer, in the green stillness that is under the sea-waves. The three shouts must be given on the hill that is guarded by Midkena and his sons–no champion since the beginning of time has raised a victory-shout on that hill. I have named my eric, sons of Turann. Do ye choose to pay it, or will ye humble yourselves and ask grace? “

“We will pay the eric,” said the sons of Turann, and they went forth from the Court of King Nuada.

When the three brothers entered their father’s dun they sat down in sorrow and heaviness and there was no word between them till their sister Enya came to them.

“Why does sorrow darken your faces and the faces of the household? ” she asked. “What grief has come upon you?”

“We have slain Cian, son of Dian-Cecht, the father of Lugh Lauve Fauda!”

“Alas!” cried Enya, and she beat her hands together. “Alas! ye have broken Lugh’s protection out of Ireland: he will not fight in the Great Battle now!”

“Lugh will fight in the Great Battle, but he has laid on us an eric that bows us to the grave-mould.”

“What eric?”

“He asks the Hound Failinis; and the Spear of Victory–he asks the Seven Treasures of the World!”

“We are undone! ” said Enya. “Destruction has come upon us!”

While she spoke they heard the approaching footsteps of those who attended Turann.

“Let us go,” said Urcar, “before our father sees that good days are gone from us.”

“Sorrow cannot be hidden,” said Enya.

Turann came into the room. He was old and his strength was withered. His sons led him to the high-seat, and when he looked on them he knew an evil thing had befallen.

“Tell me,” he said, ” what misfortune has come to us.”

Then Brian told the story of Cian’s death and what eric Lugh had bound on them. When he made an end of telling it, Turann said:

“Bitter indeed to me is the coming of the Deliverer, for he has taken from me my three sons–my Three Eagles that never failed to carry off a prey, my Three Salmon of Knowledge that could make paths for themselves in all the rivers of the world, my Three Strong Bulls that stamped on the necks of kings. It is a bitter thing to be old without my sons.”

“O my Father,” said Brian, “if you have bred strong sons they will set forth strongly, and it may be they will bring back the eric-spoil. Do not make a lamentation for us till we are dead!”

“Nay,” said Turann, “ye are setting forth on an adventure that knows no ending, for the treasures that ye seek are hidden in the caves of dragons and under the sea-waves. Strange kings will make a mock of you leaning over battlements of adamant and strange monsters will crush your bones. Ye will not come back to me, living or dead. No one will heap the grave-mound over your bodies!”

“O my Father,” said Enya, “the heart of Lugh is set on the eric-fine. His hands are fain to grasp the fiery spear and he would see the spoils of the world brought into Ireland. Let us ask him for help. If he will give Mananaun’s boat, the Ocean-Sweeper, it will not be hard for good warriors to come by the treasures–since, at a word, the Ocean-Sweeper will bear those who sit in it to whatsoever place they desire to be.”

“We will ask nothing from Lugh Lauve Fauda! ” said Turann’s sons.

“But I will ask!” said Turann, and he cried aloud:

“Let my horses be yoked and my chariot made ready! I will not sleep till I have spoken with Lugh Lauve Fauda.”

When Turann came to Lugh and asked for the boat, Lugh said:

“Bid your sons to make ready and set forth. When they come to the edge of the sea and their feet touch the sea-foam, Mananaun’s boat will be there waiting for them.”

Turann hurried home with the good answer, and his sons made ready to set forth. Their kinsfolk and the swordsmen of their father’s clan went with them to the edge of the sea and when their feet touched the sea-foam they saw a little boat, such as might fit one person, waiting for them.

“Lugh has deceived us!” cried Brian. “This is not Mananaun’s boat!”

“O Brother,” said Enya, “the Ocean Sweeper has as many shapes as the cloak of Mananaun has colours. Step into the boat.”

When Brian had taken his place in the boat there was plenty of room, and when all the three were seated there was plenty of room, and the boat began to shine like a white crystal and the waves made a song of greeting as they lapped about the prow.”

“Farewell!” said the sons of Turann; “keep gladness in your hearts till we come back.”

The Ocean-Sweeper sprang from the shore like a sea-bird and wheeled and circled in the foam, waiting the word of command.

“Go to the Garden of the Golden Apple Tree that is guarded by dragons in the Eastern Half of the World,” said Brian, and the Ocean-Sweeper sped swiftly forth.

The Garden of the Golden Apple Trees was very far off, and as they went to it the sons of Turann took counsel as to how they should get the apples.

“Let two of us,” said Urcar, “make good sword’s play on the dragons whilst the third gathers the apples.”

“Yes,” said Ur, “and when the apples are got, we three will slay the dragons and fight our way out of the garden.”

“Wisdom is not in your words,” said Brian, “we three would leave our bones among the dragons. Let us change ourselves into hawks and swoop on the apples from above.”

“That is good,” said the others. And when they were come to the garden they rose in the air, three golden hawks, and swooping on the tree took each an apple. The dragons were powerless to hinder them, but three of the maidens that walked in the garden–and each one was a king’s daughter–changed themselves into fierce sharp-clawed griffins and followed the hawks. They could not overtake the hawks: and when they saw that, they held themselves motionless in the air and great flashes of light came from their angry eyes. They blew out three streams of fire after the hawks. The hawks plunged into the water and became three salmon, and when they reached the Ocean-Sweeper they leaped into it and took their own shapes.

“It is well we have the Apples of Healing,” said Ur,” the witchfire has burnt us to the bone! “

They healed themselves with the apples and set out to seek the other treasures. It is long and long they were seeking them. They had foam of the Eastern World and foam of the Western World under their prow. They saw the Stars of the North and the Stars of the South and the Stars that are under the Sea. They were searching through the blackness of night and the redness of dawn and all the colours of the day. They knew the singing wave that lifts adventurers to the heights of the world and the silent wave that casts them down to the hollows. It is long they were seeking the treasures.

They got the Spear of Victory. They got the Magic Skin. They got the Hound. They got the Seven Swine. They got the Chariot. Their hearts were filled with pride and stubbornness.

Lugh, walking in Ireland by the sea, knew that the sons of Turann had the treasures, and he thought that they could too easily give the shouts on Midkena’s hill and be free of the eric-fine. He made a spell of forgetfulness to bring them back and take from their minds the memory of Midkena’s hill.

He stooped to lay the spell on the sea, and as he stooped a wave broke over his hands and a broken water-reed tangled itself in his fingers. He lifted up the reed and straightened it. He remembered the little well with the nine crystal bubbles, and the tenderness of the earth came into his heart.

“O little reed,” he said, “I will give the sons of Turann a chance. I will make another spel: and if, when it reaches them, they remember the wrong they did the Earth, they will remember also the shouts on Midkena’s hill.”

He made a spell that had memory and forgetfulness in it and laid it on the sea, and it became a wave and travelled unbroken till it reached the boat of Mananaun. It rocked the boat softly, and the three sons of Turann remembered their father s house, but they had no sorrow for the wrong done to the earth, and forgetfulness of Midkena’s hill came upon them.

“A good welcome would we have now if we were in our father’s house,” said Brian, “and good would it be in the morning to slip our hounds for the chase.”

“And good would it be in the evening,” said Urcar, “to hear the sound of harps in our father’s house. Let us go back to Ireland.”

“Go back to Ireland,” said Brian to the OceanSweeper, and it leaped through the sea-foam towards the Sacred Land.

On a height that looked far over the sea stood Turann’s watcher, his eyes on the horizon. Day and night, since the setting forth of Turann’s sons, a watcher had stood there, looking seaward. Swift runners waited for his joy-shout, and beacon-fires stood ready for the flame. It was early morning, and the watcher saw the pale mists whiten and the sea stir itself and wrinkle. Suddenly a great star rose in the horizon–it flashed; and grew; and neared. The watcher knew the Ocean-Sweeper. He leaped high for gladness of heart, and shouted:

“They come! They come! Turann’s Sons are returning!”

The cry was caught by the runners. They leaped and ran, and the joy-fires leaped and sparkled, blood-red in the paleness of morning. The joy-shout spread from mouth to mouth, and all that country rejoiced at the home-coming.

Turann went down to the edge of the sea to greet his sons, and Enya went with him and all the folk of the clan. Right glad were the three brothers to set their feet on Irish land. They showed the strange spoils, the marvellous. eric fine they had brought for Lugh, and all that saw them wondered.

News of the home-coming was sent to Lugh by swift messengers, and he said:

“Let the Sons of Turann come and count the eric-fine before me.”

The sons of Turann came before him, and with them came singing men and singing women and swordsmen and chariots and horsemen.

Brian counted out the eric-fine before Lugh.

Then Lugh said: “Good are the things ye have brought, but ye have not brought the full eric. Where is the cooking-spit that is a flame under the sea-wave?”

Then recollection came upon the sons of Turann, and they cried out:

“We are undone! We have not given the Shouts on Midkena’s hill–we have not the Flame that is under the sea-wave! “

Shame burnt in the faces of all their kinsfolk because the sons of Turann had not the full eric, and they said:

“Give the Ocean-Sweeper again, O Lugh, and the sons of Turann will pay the eric in full.”

“Nay,” said Lugh, “I lent the boat at first that the battle-loss of Cian might be made good in the great fight. The loss is made good.” He bent his eyes on the sons of Turann, and said:

“Ye are here now because my spell has brought you. I laid a spell of forgetfulness upon the sea, but the earth put with it a spell of remembrance, and if ye had remembered the wrong ye did the Earth, ye would have remembered the shouts on Midkena’s hill, and easily would ye have given them since ye had the Spear of Victory, the Skin of Healing, and the Apples of Life. Now ye must fare forth without these treasures and without the boat of Mananaun, and whatsoever ye win ye will win solely by the strength that is in yourselves.”

Then said Brian: “It is well named you are, Lugh the Long-Handed. Your vengeful fingers have reached across the sea to grasp us, and they will not loose their hold till you have dragged us under the grave-mound!”

Turann would have spoken, but Brian said to him:

“Words are wasted, my Father; let us go.”

Sorrowfully they went homeward, and their thoughts were on the pathless sea.

Turann made ready a boat for his sons; thick-planked and strong, a boat with crimson sails. He proffered them rowers and men at arms, but they refused, because they were going they knew not whither, and were under a curse.

They stepped into the boat, they spread the crimson sails, and as they slid away from the land, all their people made lamentation for them.

“The Eagles are going!” they wailed. “The High Noble-hearted Ones, the Three Flames on the hearth of Turann. The lights are quenched to-night in the chieftain’s house!”

The Sons of Turann went searching for the Island of Caer, the Land that is under the Sea-Wave. They heard tidings of it in many places, but no one knew where it could be found. Wise Druids told them that the Island was protected by the magic of Fand, the Sea-Queen, the daughter of Flidias, and no one who went there ever returned.

The sun had risen and set many times on the search. Brian, Urcar and Ur were weary; the wind had failed hem, and they were labouring at the, oars: it seemed to them that they would never find the Island of Caer.

“Let us rest a little,” said Urcar, “for my strength is spent.”

They rested from the oars, and Brian cast a line over the side of the boat. He drew up a fish, white as silver and covered with. crimson spots.

“Brother,” said Ur, “your fish is purple-spotted like the Salmon that swims in Connla’s Well and eats the crimson nuts of the Hazel of Knowledge: let him go free for sake of his beauty.”

Brian threw the fish back to the water, and suddenly knowledge came to him, and he cried:

“I know that the Island of Caer is beneath us! “He jumped into the water and became a white stone, falling, falling, till he reached the Land that is Under the Sea. It was a goodly land and Brian took his own shape and walked through its starry meadows till he came to the Palace of the Guarded Flame. He entered it and found many beautiful maidens singing and broidering golden flowers on mantles for the daughter of Flidias. In the midst of them leaped and shone the Guarded Flame. Brian spoke no word when he entered and the maidens did not lift their eyes to look at him. He took the flame in his two hands and turned to leave the palace. The maidens burst out laughing.

“You are a brave man,” they said, “and since the flame does not burn you, keep it. We have a flame for every day in the year, and you are the bravest champion and the handsomest that ever came to look at us broidering cloaks for the sea-queen.”

“O Maidens,” said Brian, “may every day in the year bring you fresh laughter and delight, and if good wishes can reach you from the country above the sea-floor ye will have mine every day I live, and farewell now, and my thousand blessings with you!”

He rose through the water till he came to where his brothers were and climbed into the boat. When the Flame came above the water it changed into a cooking-spit, and Brian laid it carefully in the boat.

“Our luck,” he said, “is like sunshine in midwinter, soon come, soon gone. Let us hasten to Midkena’s Hill.”

Midkena’s Hill was very high and green. It rose almost straight out of the sea. Only on one side could it be climbed.

On that side Midkena and his three sons were. It was a great fight that the sons of Turann made with the Champions of the Hill. They were like fierce eagles contending together, and like bulls whose tramplings shake the earth. The demons of the air and the fierce creatures that live under the earth gathered to watch them fighting–and no one ever travelled over the nine ridges of the world to look at a fight that was better than that fight. Brian and his brothers got the victory over Midkena and his sons. They left them dead on the hill, but they themselves had barely strength to give the three shouts. When they had given the shouts weakness came on them, and they fell down and could not rise. Then Ur saw the demons of the air that have no pity and the fierce ones from under the earth watching him, and he said:

“O my brothers, I would we were in our own country, lying on a hill-side there, for the Irish hills are gentle, and every wind that blows on them is full of peace.”

“We have no part in Ireland,” said Brian, “for we have broken the Great Oath.”

“My grief! ” said Urcar. “My bitter sorrow that we shall never see the Sacred Land again!”

While he spoke, a little wind came out of Ireland. It was very soft and gentle. It touched the sons of Turann, and there was so much healing in its touch that they rose up and stood on their feet.

“It is a wind surely from Ireland that has come to us,” said Urcar, “let us make haste while we have strength and get to the boat.”

They got down to the boat. They took the fastenings from it. They hoisted slowly the crimson sails, and the little wind strengthened itself and filled the sails and kept the boat before it till the hills of Ireland showed themselves like pale clouds.

“My blessing on the hills!” said Brian, and because he had the most strength he lifted up his brothers to get sight of the Irish land.

“It is good,” they said, “to see Ben Edair: our eyes were never more glad of it, and let us steer now to the haven where our father’s house is.”

Turann’s watcher saw them afar off and raised the shout for them, and their kinsfolk and comrades waded into the sea and drew the boat to land. They lifted up the sons of Turann and would have carried them into their father’s dun, but Brian said to them:

“Lay us all three on the green grass, for we are hurt past any hope of healing, and send swift runners for Lugh that we may say to him before we die: ‘The sons of Turann have paid you the full eric.’ “

The three were laid on the green grass, and Enya, their sister, tended them, and the leeches and healers of their clan ministered unto them. Turann, their father, sat on the earth beside them: he was putting together, in his mind, words to say to Lugh.

When Lugh came, he was so fair and had such radiance about him that it seemed to every one he must have come newly out of Tir-nan-Oge.

Turann bowed himself before Lugh, and said:

“O Mighty One, my sons have paid your eric in full, and never since the mountains lifted their heads above the waters has such an eric been asked for or paid. Grant now the Skin of Healing, that my sons may live.”

Lugh came to where the sons of Turann were lying. He looked at them. There was neither pity nor anger in his face.

“My brothers,” he said, “life is either a king’s robe or a beggar’s cloak. Do ye desire to live?”

The sons of Turann raised themselves and their hero-souls came back to them, so that they stood on their feet and cared not for their wounds.

“Ildana,” they said, “we salute you! Win victory for us in the Great Battle even as you will win it for Cian. We do not covet the beggar’s robe.”

They turned and took farewell of their father, and their sister, and their kinsfolk. And they knelt and kissed the sacred earth, and said:

“O Father, and O kinsfolk, entreat forgiveness for us from the earth, and friendly burial–even as we now entreat it for ourselves. Farewell. Make no lamentation for us.”

But Turann and all his folk made a great lamentation.

In Tir-na-Moe, the Land of the Living Heart, Cian, son of Dian-Cecht, walked among the crimson lilies. His face was radiant and he had a branch with three golden apples in his hand. Faint sweet music was everywhere throughout that joyous country. Cian lifted up his eyes and saw the three sons of Turann approaching. They had the brightness of the morning about them and there was no wound on them. Cian went to meet them.

“Greeting,” he said “and welcome to Moy Mell.”

He gave to each of them a golden apple. And when Brian, Ur, and Urcar had tasted of those apples they knew everything that had ever happened in the world and everything that would happen. They knew that the Fomor would be defeated in the Great Battle: they knew the words of the Peace-Chant that Brigit would sing:

“Peace up to Heaven,

Heaven down to earth.

The earth under Heaven.

Strength to every one.”

“O Cian, dear Comrade,” said the sons of Turann, “it is not hard to wait for news of victory in Moy Mell.”



Poetry For A November Afternoon: George William Russell aka A.E.

The Man to the Angel

I have wept a million tears:

Pure and proud one, where are thine,

What the gain though all thy years

In unbroken beauty shine?

All your beauty cannot win

Truth we learn in pain and sighs:

You can never enter in

To the circle of the wise.

They are but the slaves of light

Who have never known the gloom,

And between the dark and bright

Willed in freedom their own doom.

Think not in your pureness there,

That our pain but follows sin:

There are fires for those who dare

Seek the throne of might to win.

Pure one, from your pride refrain:

Dark and lost amid the strife

I am myriad years of pain

Nearer to the fount of life.

When defiance fierce is thrown

At the god to whom you bow,

Rest the lips of the Unknown

Tenderest upon my brow.

The Singing Silences

While the yellow constellations shine with pale and tender glory,

In the lilac-scented stillness let us listen to earth’s story.

All the flowers like moths a-flutter glimmer rich with dusky hues;

Everywhere around us seem to fall from nowhere the sweet dews.

Through the drowsy lull, the murmur, stir of leaf and sleepy hum,

We can feel a gay heart beating, hear a magic singing come.

Ah, I think that as we linger lighting at earth’s olden fire

Fitful gleams in clay that perish, little sparks that soon expire:

So the Mother brims her gladness from a life beyond her own,

From whose darkness as a fountain up the fiery days are thrown;

Starry words that wheel in splendour, sunny systems, histories,

Vast and nebulous traditions told in the eternities.

And our listening Mother whispers through her children all the story.

Come: the yellow constellations shine with pale and tender glory!

The Weaver of Souls

Who is this unseen messenger

For ever between me and her,

Who brings love’s precious merchandise,

The golden breath, the dew of sighs,

And the wild, gentle thoughts that dwell

Too fragile for the lips to tell,

Each at their birth, to us before

A heaving of the heart is o’er?

Who art thou, unseen messenger?

I think, O Angel of the Lord,

You make our hearts to so accord

That those who hear in after hours

May sigh for love as deep as ours;

And seek the magic that can give

An Eden where the soul may live,

Nor need to walk a road of clay

With stumbling feet, nor fall away

From thee, O Angel of the Lord.

The Golden Age

When the morning breaks above us

And the wild sweet stars have fled,

By the faery hands that love us

Wakened you and I will tread

Where the lilacs on the lawn

Shine with all their silver dews,

In the stillness of a dawn

Wrapped in tender primrose hues.

We will hear the strange old song

That the earth croons in her breast,

Echoed by the feathered throng

Joyous from each leafy nest.

Earth, whose dreams are we and they,

With her heart’s deep gladness fills

All our human lips can say,

Or the dawn-fired singer trills.

She is rapt in dreams divine:

As her clouds of beauty pass,

On our glowing hearts they shine,

Mirrored there as in a glass.

So when all the vapours grey

From our flowery paths shall flit,

And the dawn begin the day,

We will sing that song to it

Ere its yellow fervour flies.—

Oh, we are so glad of youth,

Whose first sweetness never dies

Nourished by eternal truth.


Art & The Occult

Hope this finds you well, and rested after Thursday…



On The Menu

Adam Shaikh – Essence

Art &amp; The Occult

The Links

Sufi Quotes

How the Son of The Gobhaun Saor Shortened the Road

Poems and Quotes of the Winged Hearts…

Revisiting The Art of Jean Delville (1867-1953)

Jean Delville – an introduction:

Jean Delville was born in Louvain in 1867 and died in 1953. He headed the Brussels branch of the Rosicrucian revival, and organized Salons de l’Art Idéaliste in imitation of Joséphin Péladan’s Parisian Salons de la Rose+Croix. These Salons commenced in 1896.

The Salons d’Art Idéaliste were intended to continue the grand tradition of idealistic art, which Delville traced back to the ancient Greeks and Egyptians. Delville rejected a long list of popular subjects, including:

“…history painting (except synthetic, or symbolic history), military painting, all representations of contemporary life, private or public, portraits, if it is not iconic, scenes of peasant life, seascapes, landscapes, humorous scenes, picturesque orientalism, domestic animals or sport animals, paintings of flowers, fruits, or accessories.”

— J. Delville, quoted in J. Dujardin, L’Art Flamand, vol. 6, 1900, p. 190, translation mine. Delville had considerable academic success: he won the Prix de Rome in 1895, and was a professor at the Glasgow School of Art for a number of years in the early 20th century. He admired the great artists of the Italian Renaissance, especially Raphael, Leonardo, and Michelangelo, and tried to imitate them. He emphasized content over form, preferring a mediocre painting of a spiritual thought to a great painting of a realist scene.

As a mystic strongly influenced by Neoplatonism, Delville believed that visible reality was only a symbol, and that humans exist in three planes: the physical (the realm of facts), the astral (or spiritual world, the realm of laws), and the divine (the realm of causes). These higher planes of existence were the only significant ones. Materialism was a trap, and the soul had to guard against being trapped by its snares. The human body he considered to a potential prison for the soul. Rejecting Darwinism and evolution, Delville refused to believe that humans had come from animals, nor did he believe that people could degenerate to animals. He considered humans to be the highest development of terrestrial beings, though at a mid-point between animals and angels. Reincarnation was to provide the path to the highest level for those who perfected their will and spirit through initiation and magic. He reconciled his interest in the occult with Christianity by considering Catholicism to be in harmony with magical laws: the external forms of devotion concealed occult truths. Above all, however, Delville considered art to play a key role in uplifting people from their blindness. The true artist was an initiate who would present images which would teach and transform human nature. Artists were to become priests and prophets:

“It is necessary to speak clearly and precisely of the civilizing mission of art… It is also necessary to speak of the moral effect which a work of art produces on people, on the public, the moralizing strength of Art, [which is] more salutary, more pacifying than that of Politics.”

— J. Delville, La Mission de l’Art, Brussels, 1900, p. 88, Delville also emphasized the perils of materialism and sensuality in an image of souls ensnared by the tentacles of Satan: The Treasures of Satan, 1894, Royal Museums of Art, Brussels. In this work the voluptuous sinners are not so much being punished as they are being trapped at a low level of spiritual evolution. The depths of the sea corresponds to their low development. They are trapped by being fixated on material treasures: jewels, pearls, and sensuality. They are also the “Treasures of Satan,” being trapped by him. Satan, although handsome and graceful, is himself a low-level being, as revealed by his tentacles. His physical form reveals his spiritual nature.

Other paintings by Delville, such as The God-Man, 1895 (5 meters by 5 meters, Groeninge Museum, Bruges), contrast this bondage with the vision of enlightened, pure souls ascending to heaven. This painting represents the merciful figure of Christ, the great initiate, towering over the bodies of souls striving for union with the divine.193 The dominant blue color is a symbol of spirituality, just as red was a symbol of materialism and sensualism in The Treasures of Satan. These works are complementary, in that they represent the poles of human destiny.

— Jeffery Howe


On The Music Box: Adham Shaikh – Essence

“Essence is gorgeous, daring and respectful, blending the globally renowned bansuri (indian bamboo flute) playing of Catherine Potter with the beat contributions of Montreal producer Freeworm, dubwise skills of Sean Hill, flute stylings of artist Jean-Marc Guillemette, percussion of Yasmine Amal, and much more. Somptin Hapnin (water in me) dubs and flows and shakes as vocalist Kinnie Starr pays tribute to water, trees and life. Sabadhi cements Shaikh’s reputation for producing finely tuned, ambient loveliness while its sister masterpiece Sabadub offers a more beat-heavy, dub-wise treatment of bansuri, bermibau, and viola.

Adham also beautifully balances traditional and experimental, natural and organic during Sufi Spin. Here, recordings of Balinese dancing, chanting and flute meet complex beats, the tabla playing of Ekkos’ E.Shankar, and thick grooves, resulting in a deep, heartfelt, engaging whole.

Essence also showcases Adham’s remix skills, with solid treatments of both Ekko’s shiraz (the albums most up-tempo number) and Lisa Walker’s Orca whale-inspired. Orcadrift. But it’s the with his dubbed-out reworking of Legion of Green Men’s Consellation that Shaikh really cuts loose, adding tension, builds, and thick slabs of bass. Its a massive treatment that’s as true to the original as it is fresh to the ear. ”


Beyond our ideas of right-doing and wrong-doing,

there is a field. I’ll meet you there.

When the soul lies down in that grass,

the world is too full to talk about.

Ideas, language, even the phrase ‘each other’

doesn’t make sense any more.

Jelaluddin Rumi


Art &amp; The Occult

A recommended book, that lives in our library.

It is now out of print, but worth the time if you can find it, and if you have an interest…I saw several on Amazon and a couple of other sites btw

Mary gave it to me during the mid 80′s, when I was just getting back into painting. It really brought a certain awareness to the table for me with my dealings with the creative…

Wonderful read, full of interesting ideas and speculations on the hidden and not so hidden aspects of the occult in various artist works. All the illustrations are in black and white, but still add much to the text.

The writers’ father was the renowned artist Manfred Schwartz. Worth looking at as well. Not my cup of Tea, but well thought of in his time.


Enlightenment must come little by little-otherwise it would overwhelm.

Idries Shah


The Links:

The Local Police Recommend… Prescription, not Prosecution

Darwin, the father of Terrorism…

Before you buy it… view it here!

Police have a solution for every situation: Tazers!



If men had been forbidden to make porridge of camel’s dung, they would have done it, saying that they would not have been forbidden to do it unless there had been some good in it.




What is done for you – allow it to be done.

What you must do yourself – make sure you do it.



How the Son of The Gobhaun Saor Shortened the Road

One day the Son of the Gobhaun Saor was sitting outside in the sunshine, cutting a little reed into a pipe to make music with. He was so busy that he never saw three stranger-men coming till they were close to him. He looked up then and saw three thrawn-faced churls wrapped in long cloaks. “Good morrow to you,” said the Son of the Gobhaun Saor. “Good morrow,” said they. “We have come to say a word to the Son of the Gobhaun Saor.” “He is before you,” said the Son. “We have come,” said the most thrawn-faced of the three, “from the King of the Land Under Wave to ask you to help him; he has a piece of work that none of his own people can do, and you have the cleverness of the Three Worlds in your fingers.” “‘Tis my father has that,” said the Son of the Gobhaun Saor. “Well,” said the other, “bring your father with you to the Land Under Wave and your fortune’s made.”

The Son of the Gobhaun Saor set off at that to find his father. “I have the news of the world for you and your share of fortune out of it,” he said. “What news? ” said the Gobhaun. “The King of the Land Under Wave has sent for me; if you come with me your fortune is made.” “Did he send you a token?” “No token at all, but do you think I would not know his messengers? ” “O, ’tis you has the cleverness!” said the Gobhaun Saor.

They set out next morning, and as they were going along, the Gobhaun Saor said: “Son, shorten the way for me.” “How could I do that? ” said the Son, “if your own two feet can’t shorten it.” “Now, do you think,” said the father, “that you’ll make my fortune and your own too when you can’t do a little thing like that!” and he went back to the house.

The Son sat down on a stone with his head on his hands to think how he could shorten the road, but the more he thought of it the harder it seemed, and after a while he gave up thinking and began to look round him. He saw a wide stretch of green grass and an old man spreading out locks of wool on it. The old man was frail and bent, and he moved slowly spreading out the wool. The Son of the Gobhaun Saor thought it hard to see the old man working, and went to help him, but when he came nearer a little wind caught the wool and it lifted and drifted, and he saw it wasn’t wool at all but white foam of the sea. The old man straightened himself, and the Son of the Gobhaun Saor knew it was Mananaun the Sea-God, and he stood with his eyes on the sea-foam and had nothing to say. “You came to help me,” said Mananaun. “I did,” said the Son of the Gobhaun Saor, “but you need no help from me.” “The outstretched hand,” said Mananaun, “is the hand that is filled the fullest; stoop now and take a lock of my wool, it will help you when you need help.” The Son of the Gobhaun Saor stooped to the sea-foam; the wind was blowing it, and under the foam he saw the blue of the sea clear as crystal, and under that a field of red flowers bending with the wind. He took a handful of foam. It became a lock of wool, and when he raised himself Mananaun was gone, and there was nothing before him but the greenness of grass and the sun shining on it.

He went home then and showed the lock of wool to his wife and told her the sorrow he was in because he couldn’t shorten the road for his father. ” Don’t be in sorrow for that,” said she, “sure every one knows that storytelling is the way to shorten a road.” “May wisdom grow with you like the tree that has the nuts of knowledge! ” said he. “I’ll take your advice, and maybe to-morrow my father won’t turn back on the road.”

They set out next day and the Gobhaun Saor said–” Son, be shortening the road.” At that the Son began the story of Angus Oge and how he won a house for himself from the Dagda Mor: it was a long story, and he made it last till they came to the White Strand.

When they got there they saw a clumsy ill-made boat waiting for them, with ugly dark-looking men to row it.

“Since when,” said the Gobhaun Saor, “did the King of the Land Under Wave get Fomorians to be his rowers, and when did he borrow a boat from them?” The Son had no word to answer him, but the ugliest of the ill-made lot came up to them with two cloaks in his hand that shone like the sea when the Sun strikes lights out of it. “These cloaks,” said he, “are from the Land Under Wave; put one about your head, Gobhaun Saor, and you won’t think the boat ugly or the journey long.” “What did I tell you? ” said the Son when he saw the cloaks. “You have your own asking of a token, and if you turn back now in spite of the way I shortened the road for you, I’ll go myself and I’ll have luck with me.” “I’ll go with you,” said the Gobhaun Saor; he took the cloaks and they stepped into the boat. He put one round his head the way he wouldn’t see the ugly oarsmen, and the Son took the other.

As they were coming near land the Gobhaun Saor looked out from the cloak, and when he saw the place he pulled the cloak from his Son’s head and said: “Look at the land we are coming to.” It was a dark, dreary, death-looking country without grass or trees or sun in the sky. “I’m thinking it won’t take long to spend the fortune you’ll make here,” said the Gobhaun Saor, “for this is not the Land Under Wave but the country of Balor of the Evil Eye, the King of the Fomorians.” He stood up then and called to the chief of the oarsmen: “You trapped us with lies and with cloaks stolen from the Land Under Wave, but you’ll trap no one else with the cloaks,” and he flung them into the sea. They sank at once as if hands pulled them down. “Let them go back to their owners,” said the Gobhaun Saor.

The Fomorians ground their teeth and cursed with rage, but they were afraid to touch the Gobhaun or his Son because Balor wanted them; so they guarded them carefully and brought them to the King. He was a big mis-shapen giant with a terrible eye that blasted everything, and he lived in a great dun made of glass as smooth and cold as ice. “You are a fire-smith and a wonder-smith, and your Son is a wise man,” he said to the Gobhaun. “I have brought the two of you here to put fire under a pot for me.” “That is no hard task,” said the Gobhaun. “Show me the pot.” “I will,” said Balor, and he brought them to a walled-in place that was guarded all round by warriors. Inside was the largest pot the Gobhaun Saor had ever laid eyes on; it was made of red bronze riveted together, and it shone like the Sun. “I want you to light a fire under that pot,” said Balor.” “None of my own people can light a fire under it, and every fire over which it is hung goes out. Your choice of good fortune to you if you put fire under the pot, and clouds of misfortune to you if you fail, for then neither yourself nor your Son will leave the place alive.”

“Let every one go out of the enclosure but my Son and myself,” said the Gobhaun Saor, “until we see what power we have.” They went Out, and when the Gobhaun Saor got the place to himself he said to the Son: “Go round the pot from East to West, and I will go round from West to East, and see what wisdom comes to us.” They went round nine times, and then the Gobhaun Saor said: “Son, what wisdom came to you? ” “I think,” said the Son, “this pot belongs to the Dagda Mor.” “There is truth on your tongue,” said the Gobhaun, “for it is the Cauldron of Plenty that used to feed all the men of Ireland at one time, when the Dagda had it, and every one got out of it the food he liked best. It was by stealth and treachery the Fomorians got it, and that is why they cannot put fire under it.” With that he let a shout to the Fomorians: “Come in now, for I have wisdom on me.” “Are you going to light the fire,” said the Son, “for the robbers that have destroyed Ireland?” “Whist,” said the Gobhaun Saor; “who said I was going to light the fire? ” “Tell Balor,” he said to the Fomorians that came running in, “that I must have nine kinds of wood freshly gathered to put under the pot and two stones to strike fire from. Get me boughs of the oak, boughs of the ash, boughs of the pine tree, boughs of the quicken, boughs of the blackthorn, boughs of the hazel, boughs of the yew, boughs of the whitethorn, and a branch of bog myrtle; and bring me a white stone from the door step of a Brugh-fer, and a black stone from the door step of a poet that has the nine golden songs, and I will put fire under the pot.”

They ran to Balor with the news, and he grew black with rage when he heard it. “Where am I to get boughs of the oak, boughs of the ash, boughs of the pine tree, boughs of the quicken, boughs of the blackthorn, boughs of the hazel, boughs of the yew, boughs of the white-thorn and a branch of bog myrtle in a country as barren as the grave? ” said he. “What poet of mine knows any songs that are not satires or maledictions, and what Brugh-fer have I who never gave a meal’s meat to a stranger all my life? Let him tell us,” said Balor, “how the things are to be got?” They went back to the Gobhaun Saor then and asked how the things were to be got. ” It is hard,” said the Gobhaun, “to do anything in a country like this, but since you have none of the things, you must go to the Land of the De Danaans for them. Let Balor’s Son and his Sister’s Son go to my house in Ireland and ask the woman of the house for the things.”

Balor’s Son set out and the Son of Balor’s Sister with him. Balor’s Druids sent a wind behind them that swept them into the country of the De Danaans like a blast of winter. They came to the house of the Gobhaun Saor, and the wife of the Son came out to them. “O Woman of the House,” said they, “we have a message from the Gobhaun Saor.” He is to light a fire for Balor, and he sent us to ask you for boughs of the oak, boughs of the ash, boughs of the pine tree, boughs of the quicken, boughs of the blackthorn, boughs of the hazel, boughs of the yew, boughs of the whitethorn and a branch ot bog myrtle. “You are to give us,” he said, “a white stone from the door step of a Brugh-fer, and a black stone from the door step of a poet that has the nine golden songs.”

“A good asking,” said the woman, “and welcome before you!” “Let the Son of Balor come into the secret chamber of the house.” He came in, and she said: “Show me the token my man gave you.” Now, Balor’s Son had no token, but he wouldn’t own to that, so he brought out a ring and said: “Here is the token.” The woman took it in her hand, and when she touched it she knew that it belonged to Balor’s Son, and she went out of the room from him and locked the door on him with seven locks that no one could open but herself.

She went to the other Fomorian then and said: ” Go to Balor and tell him I have his Son, and he will not get him back till I get back the two that went from me, and if he wants the things you ask for he must send a token from my own people before I give them.”

Balor was neither to hold nor to bind when he got this news. “Man for man,” he said; “she kept one and she’ll get back one, but I’ll have my will of the other. The Gobhaun Saor will pay dear for sending my Son on a fool’s errand.” He called to his warriors and said:

“Shut the Gobhaun Saor and his Son in my strongest dun and guard it well through the night. To-morrow I’ll send the Son to Ireland and get back my own Son, and to-morrow I’ll have the blood of the Gobhaun Saor.”

The Gobhaun Saor and his Son were left in the dun without light, without food, and without companions. Outside they could hear the heavy-footed Fomorians, and the night seemed long to them. “My sorrow,” said the Son, “that ever I brought you here to seek a fortune, but put a good thought on me now, father, for we have come to the end of it all.” ” I needn’t blame your wit,” said the father, “that had as little myself. Why did I send only two messengers? Why didn’t I send a lucky number like three? Then she could have kept two and send one back. Troth, from this out every fool will know there’s luck in odd numbers!”

“If we had light itself,” said the Son, “it wouldn’t be so hard, or if I had a little pipe to play a tune on.” He thought of the little reed pipe he was making the day the three Fomorians came to him, and he began to search in the folds of his belt for it. His hand came on the lock of wool he got from Mananaun, arid he drew it out. “O the fool that I was,” he said, “not to think of this sooner! ” “What have you there? “said the Gobhaun. “I have a lock of wool from the Sea-God, and it will help me now when I need help.” He drew it through his fingers and said: “Give me light!” and all the dun was full of light. He divided the wool into two parts and said: “Be cloaks of darkness and invisibility!” and he had two cloaks in his hand coloured like the sea where the shadow is deepest. “Put one about you,” he said to the Gobhaun, and he drew the other round himself. They went to the door, it flew open before them, a sleep of enchantment came on the guards and they went out free. “Now,” said the Son of the Gobhaun Saor, “let a small light go before us; and a small light went before them on the road, for there were no stars in Balor’s sky. When they came to the Dark Strand the Son struck the waters with his cloak and a boat came to him. It had neither oars nor sails; it was pure crystal, and it was shining like the big white star that is in the sky before sunrise. “It is the Ocean-Sweeper,” said the Gobhaun. “Mananaun has sent us his own boat! ” ” My thousand welcomes before it,” said the Son, “and good fortune and honour to Mananaun while there is one wave to run after another in the sea! “

They stepped into the boat, and no sooner had they stepped into it than they were at the White Strand, for the Ocean-Sweeper goes as fast as a thought goes, and takes the people she carries at once to the place they have their hearts on.

It is a good sight our own land is! ” said the Gobhaun when his feet touched Ireland. “It is,” said the Son, “and may we live long to see it!” There was no stopping after that till they reached the house of the Gobhaun, and right glad was the Woman of the House to see them. They told her all their story, and she told them how she had seven locks on Balor’s Son. “Let him out now,” said the Gobhaun, “and ask the men of Ireland to a feast and let the Fomorian take back a good account of the treatment he got.”

Well, there was the feast of the world that night. The biggest pot in the Gobhaun’s house was hung up, and the Gobhaun himself put fire under it. He took boughs of the oak, boughs of the ash, boughs of the pine tree, boughs of the quicken, boughs of the blackthorn, boughs of the hazel, boughs of the yew, boughs of the whitethorn, and a branch of bog-myrtle. He got a white stone from the door-step of a Brugh-fer, and a black stone from the door-step of a poet that had nine golden songs. He struck fire from the stones and the flames leaped up under the pot, red blue and scarlet and every colour of the rainbow.

It is not dark or silent Gobhaun’s house was that night, and if all the champions on the golden crested ridge of the world had come into it with the hunger of seven years on them they could have lost it without trouble at Gobhaun’s feast.


Poems and Quotes of the Winged Hearts…

You’ve no idea how hard I’ve looked for a gift to bring You.

Nothing seemed right. What’s the point of bringing gold

to the gold mine, or water to the Ocean. Everything I came

up with was like taking spices to the Orient. It’s no good

giving my heart and my soul because you already have these.

So- I’ve brought you a mirror. Look at yourself and

remember me.

Jalaluddin Rumi

Love came and spread like blood in my veins and the skin of me,

It filled me with the Friend and completely emptied me.

The Friend has taken over all parts of my existence,

Only my name remains, as all is He.

Amir Khusrau (d 1325 A.D. ) one of the most beloved poets of the Chishti Sufi lineage

The noise of the lover is only up to

the time when he has not seen his Beloved.

Once he sees the Beloved, he becomes calm and quiet,

just as the rivers are boisterous before they join the ocean,

but when they do so, there are becalmed forever.

Moinuddin Hasan Chishti (d 1229 A.D) beloved spiritual leader who carried the Chishti lineage to India.

The one who knows becomes perfect only when

all else is removed from in-between him and the Friend.

Either he remains or the Friend.

If you desire the Beloved, my heart,

Do not cease to pour out lamentations.

Observing His existence, reach annihilation!

Say “Oh He and You who is He”.

Let tears of blood pour from your eyes

May they emerge hot from the furnace

Say not that he is one of you or one of us

Say “Oh He and You who is He”.

Let love come that you may have a friend

Your distresses are a torrent

Sweeping you along the way to the Friend

Say “Oh He and You who is He”.

Take yourself up to the heavens

Meet the angels

And fulfill your desires

Say “Oh He and You who is He”.

Pass beyond the universe, this [unfurled] carpet

Beyond the pedestal and beyond the throne

That the bringers of good tidings may greet you

Say “Oh He and You who is He”.

Remove your you from you

Leave behind body and soul

That theophanies may appear

Say “Oh He and You who is He”.

Pass on, without looking aside

Without your heart pouring forth to another

That you may drink the pure waters

Say “Oh He and You who is He”.

If you desire union with the Beloved

Oh Uftade! Find your soul

That the Beloved may appear before you

Say “Oh He and You who is He”.

Hazret-i Uftade (1490-1580 A.D.) Mehmed Muhyiddin Üftade was the founder of the Jelveti order of Sufis.

Burning Times…

Thursday – Mid Day…

I have been mulling over this entry for awhile. It is based around a news item I saw in the Guardian yesterday. It is on the blog, so you can follow the logic and thought… I grew up thinking that tolerance was the gift of the present age, but I have watched trends develop that are most disturbing. In my mind the most dangerous form is Fundamentalism of any stripe, be it religious, scientific, atheistic, political or what-ever.

This is dedicated to those who bring forth a new day, based on love, tolerance, and mutual respect for all.

Bright Blessings,


On The Menu:

Hol Baumann / Fahrenheit Project 6

The Quotes

Thanksgiving Meditation

The Links

The Burning Days Return?

No One Expects…

Poetry: Rilke…


Hol Baumann…

I really like this young man’s work. I have followed his career for a few years, and thought you might like to check him out. If your are familiar with the Fahrenheit Project Series, you’ll recognize his name…

Hol’s work is to be found on the [Ultimae] Recording Label out of Europa…

Some of their copy on the new Fahrenheit Project Six: After a summer full of festivals and parties, Ultimae’s back with the 6th volume of the Fahrenheit Project series.

9 inedit anthems dreamed by our in-house artists: Solar Fields, H.U.V.A Network, Aes Dana, Sync24, Cell, Hol Baumann… but also new ambient values like Scann-Tec, Irukandji and Sundial.

More upbeat than the previous chapters, Fahrenheit Project 6 is the absolute soundtrack for your after parties, morning celebration or “sofatimes”…

A journey selected by Aes Dana and mastered by Huby Sea on the last ProTools hardware and software updates.

The One before the Last…


Thanksgiving Prayer – William Burroughs


The Quotes:

“Every generation laughs at the old fashions, but follows religiously the new.”

“If a thing isn’t worth saying, you sing it.”

“I am not sincere, even when I say I am not.”

“No man remains quite what he was when he recognizes himself.”

“I have lost friends, some by death… others through sheer inability to cross the street.”

“Moral indignation is jealousy with a halo.”

“Architecture is the art of how to waste space.”

“Ability will never catch up with the demand for it.”

“Against logic there is no armor like ignorance.”

“The longer I live the more I see that I am never wrong about anything, and that all the pains I have so humbly taken to verify my notions have only wasted my time.”

“Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself.”


The Links:

Jungle Fever…

Door To Door Athiests

CIA role claim in Kennedy killing

Pitch Black The New Black

So what’s with all the dinosaurs?

Putting The Dark Into The Dark Ages…


The Burning Days Return?…

Catholic marchers turn on Glastonbury pagans

· Police arrest youth on suspicion of harassment

· Priest distances church from intimidation

In scenes reminiscent of medieval witchhunts, Catholic pilgrims in Glastonbury have attacked pagans and threatened to “cleanse” them from the town.

Local pagans were pelted with salt and branded witches who “would burn in hell” during a procession organised by Youth 2000, a conservative Catholic lay group. The Magick Box, a pagan shop on the route of the march, was also singled out and attacked.

Maya Pinder, the owner of the shop, said: “We’ve had to hear comments such as ‘burn the witches’, we’ve had salt thrown in our faces and at our shop, people were openly saying they were ‘cleansing Glastonbury of paganism’.

“It was as if we had returned to the dark ages. This is hugely damaging to Glastonbury … it is hard enough to trade in Glastonbury as it is, if you were to take away the pagan element it would be a dead town.” The Somerset town is known for having a large population of resident and visiting pagans.

The archdruid of Glastonbury, Dreow Bennett, said: “To call the behaviour of some of their members medieval would be an understatement. I personally witnessed the owner of of the Magick Box being confronted by one of their associates and being referred to as a bloody bitch and being told ‘you will burn in hell’.”

Father Kevin Knox-Lecky of St Mary’s church said that after meeting representatives of the pagan community he had decided not to invite Youth 2000 to the town again.

He said: “A family appeared who we don’t know, who were very destructive not only in the town and to the pagan community, but were also swearing at our parishioners as well.”

He said the majority of Catholics taking part in the procession had been well-behaved and respectful of the pagans.

The retreat was organised last week to mark the 467th anniversary of the beheading of the last abbot of Glastonbury Abbey, Richard Whiting, and fellow martyrs.

Youth 2000 describes itself as “an independent, international initiative that helps young adults aged 16-35 plug back into God at the heart of the Roman Catholic Church”.

It was set up 10 years ago by a disenchanted Catholic barrister who wanted a return to the traditional teachings of the church for young people.

Charlie Conner, the managing director of Youth 2000, said: “There were several incidents that happened that same weekend that were linked to people who had come to Glastonbury for the retreat. This was in direct contravention of the general spirit of Youth 2000 and its express instructions. The young man who was fined was not in fact registered on the retreat, although he did attempt to attend it.

“Youth 2000 does not condone or encourage this kind of behaviour from anyone. We fully agree that differences on matters of faith cannot and should not be resolved by any kind of harassment.”

A spokesman for Avon and Somerset police confirmed a youth had been arrested at Magick Box on suspicion of causing harassment, alarm or distress.

Two women were also given cautions and warned about their future conduct.


If Only… No One Expects The Spanish Inquisition


Poetry: Rilke…

The Sonnets of Orpheus I

A tree ascended there. Oh pure transcendence!

Oh Orpheus sings! Oh tall tree in the ear!

And all grew hushed. But in that very silence

a new beginning, sign and change appeared.

Quiet creatures gathered from the clear

unhurried forest, out of lair and nest;

and so it must have been, their stealthiness

was not born out of cunning or of fear,

but just from hearing. Bellow, cry, and roar

seemed tiny in their hearts. And where before

there barely stood a hut to take this in,

a hiding place of deepest darkest yens,

and with an entryway whose doorposts trembled –

you built for them an auditory temple.


And you wait, keep waiting for that one thing

which would infinitely enrich your life:

the powerful, uniquely uncommon,

the awakening of dormant stones,

depths that would reveal you to yourself.

In the dusk you notice the book shelves

with their volumes in gold and in brown;

and you think of far lands you journeyed,

of pictures and of shimmering gowns

worn by women you conquered and lost.

And it comes to you all of a sudden:

That was it! And you arise, for you are

aware of a year in your distant past

with its fears and events and prayers.

The Sonnets of Orpheus XIII

Be ahead of all parting, as though it already were

behind you, like the winter that has just gone by.

For among these winters there is one so endlessly winter

that only by wintering through it all will your heart survive.

Be forever dead in Eurydice-more gladly arise

into the seamless life proclaimed in your song.

Here, in the realm of decline, among momentary days,

be the crystal cup that shattered even as it rang.

Be-and yet know the great void where all things begin,

the infinite source of your own most intense vibration,

so that, this once, you may give it your perfect assent.

To all that is used-up, and to all the muffled and dumb

creatures in the world’s full reserve, the unsayable sums,

joyfully add yourself, and cancel the count.


Fin de Siècle

(Edmond-Francois Aman-Jean – Hesiod Listening to the Inspiration of the Muse)


Ten thousand flowers in spring,

the moon in autumn,

a cool breeze in summer,

snow in winter.

If your mind isn’t clouded

by unnecessary things,

this is the best season of your life.



Arcana – Le Serpent Rouge…

Visit their site here: Arcana Home Page…

Check out their free music section to get an idea of the sound that they produce. Quite interesting in Euro kinda way. They owe a debt to DCD, but seem to be gathering steam on their own.

I discovered them by accident, by running ‘Arcana’ into google. Never know where one word will take ya…

If you are travelling this holiday, take care, have a pleasant time, ‘kay?

Bright Blessings,



On The Menu:

The Links

Strange Kind Of Love

The Cow of Plenty

Poetry: Love Poems of Rumi

Art: Edmond-Francois Aman-Jean (French Artist/Fin de Siècle Period)


The Links

Cosmonaut to hit golf ball in space

The Scottish Lord with the elixir of life

Teen creates nuclear fusion in basement

William Upski Wimsatt: Youth Vote Did it for Dems


Strange Kind Of Love


One Instant

One Instant is eternity;

eternity is the now.

When you see through this one instant,

you see through the one who sees.



(Edmond-Francois Aman-Jean – Girl With Peacock)


The Great Way

The Great Way has no gate;

there are a thousand paths to it.

If you pass through the barrier,

you walk the universe alone.



The Cow of Plenty

Gobniu, the Smith, had the Cow of Plenty. She walked all over Ireland in a day’s grazing and gave milk to every one that came to her: there was no one hungry or sorrowful in Ireland in those days!

Balor of the Evil Eye set his heart on the Cow. He had the grasping hand that is never filled, and there was nothing good in his country. He sent the best man he had to steal the Cow of Plenty.

The man stole her, but as he was taking her away Gobniu saw him and let out a battle-roar that shook stars from the sky. The man made a leap into the darkness and got off. Gobniu had the Cow, but the Fomorian had the halter. Now, the luck of the world was in the halter, and wherever the halter was the Cow would follow it. Gobniu got little good of the Cow after that! He had to keep his eyes on her, morning, noon, and night, for fear she would go into Balor’s country. He had to tramp behind her when she took her day’s grazing all over Ireland, and the days seemed long to Gobniu the Wonder-Smith.

One day a young champion in a red clock fringed with gold came to him and stood outside his door and saluted him:

“O Wonder-Smith, O Gobniu! will you make a sword for me? It must be long, and keen-edged, and a death-biter–a sword for a champion. Will you make it, Gobniu? No Smith in Ireland can make a sword for champion-feats but yourself!”

“It’s little trouble I would have with the sword, young champion, but I must follow my Cow from morning till night. If once I took my eyes off her, she would go to Balor in the land of the Fomor.”

“If you make the sword for me I will follow the Cow from morning till night and never take my eyes off her once.”

“If you do that, Cian, son of Dian-Cecht, I will make the sword.”

It was agreed between them, and the Smith set to the making of the sword while Cian followed the Cow. She walked all over Ireland that day, and Cian was not sorry when she came at night to the house of Gobniu. There was light within, and some men stood at the door. They said to Cian:

“The Wonder-Smith has made the sword for you, and waits to put the tempering on it: he can’t do that till you go within and hold the sword hilt.”

It was a joy to Cian to hear this, and he ran in quickly.

“Where is the Cow? ” said the Smith.

“She is without,” said Cian; “my head to you if she is not!”

“She is not without,” said the Smith, “she is with Balor!” and he ran to the door. The Cow was gone!

“I have only my head to give you now, O Gobniu!”

“I will not take your head, Cian, son of DianCecht, but I will take another eric from you. Go now in search of the halter; it is with Balor in the land of the Fomorians. The road is hard to find that leads there and the dark waters are ill to cross, but do not turn back or leave off seeking till you get the halter of the Cow.”

I will not come back to Ireland,” said Cian, “without the halter of the Cow.”

Cian set out and he travelled and travelled till he came to the dark waters, and when he came to them he could find no boat to cross. He waited there for three days and nights searching for a boat, and then he saw a small poor-looking boat with an old man in it. Cian looked at the boat, but, although he was a good champion and had cleverness, he did not know that he was looking at the Ocean-Sweeper, the boat that could carry any one in a moment to whatever place they wished to be; and he did not know that the old man was the Tawny Mananaun, the Son of Lear, who rules all the oceans of the world.

“Old man,” said Cian, “will you row me across the waters to the land of Balor? “

“I will row you, young champion, if you swear to give me half of what you gain there.”

“I will share everything with you but the halter of Gobniu’s Cow.”

I will not ask for that,” said the boatman.

“Be it so,” said the other. They stepped into the boat, and in a moment they touched the land of the Fomor.

“You have helped me in need, old man,” said Cian. “I have a gold ring, and my cloak is rich–I pray you keep them both.”

“I will change cloaks,” said the old man, “but I will not take the ring.” He put his hand on Cian’s fingers. “I leave you a gift,” he said, “whatever lock you touch will open before you. He put his cloak on Cian’s shoulders. “It covers you as night covers the earth–beneath it you are safe, for no one can see you.”

The cloak fell about Cian in long folds; he knew there was magic in it and turned to look closely at the old man, but he could not see him and the boat was gone.

Cian was in a strange country, all cold, and desolate, and death-looking; he saw fierce warriors of the Fomor, but the cloak sheltered him and he reached the court of Balor without mishap.

“What seek you of me? ” said Balor.

“I would take service with you,” said Cian.

“What can you do?”

“Whatever the De Danaans can do,” said Cian. “I could make grass grow in this land, where grass never grew.”

Balor looked pleased when he heard that, for he had the greatest desire in the world for a garth of apple trees like the apple trees Mananaun had in the Island of Avilion, that were so beautiful people made songs about them.

“Can you make apple trees grow? ” said he to Cian.

“I can,” said Cian.

“Well,” said Balor, “make me a garth of apple trees like the garth Mananaun has; and when I see apples on the trees I will give you your own asking of reward.”

“I have only one reward to ask,” said Cian, “and I will ask for it at the beginning; it is the halter of Gobniu’s Cow.”

“I will give you that,” said Balor, “without deceit.”

Cian was glad when he made the bargain, and he began to work; he had his sufficiency of trouble over the grass, for every blade that grew for him in the morning was withered by Balor’s breath at night. After a while he had apple trees, and as he used to be minding them he often looked at a great white dun that was near. Warriors of the Fomorians were always guarding it, and one day he asked who it was lived there.

“Ethlinn, Balor’s daughter, lives there,” said the man he asked. “She is the most beautiful woman in the world, but no one may see her, and she is shut in the dun lest she should marry, for it is said that a son born of her will slay Balor.”

Cian kept thinking of this, and there was a wish on him to see the beautiful woman. He put the magic cloak on him and went to the dun. When he laid his hand on the door it opened, because of the enchantment on his fingers. He went in and found Balor’s daughter. She was sitting at a loom, weaving a cloth that had every colour in it, and singing as she wove. Cian stood awhile looking at her till she said:

“Who is here that I cannot see?”

Then he dropped the cloak. Balor’s daughter loved him when she saw him, and chose him for her man. He came to her many times after that, and they took oaths of faithfulness to one another. There was a child born to them, and he was so beautiful that whatever place he was in seemed to be full of sunshine. Ethlinn, his mother, called him Lugh, which means Light, but Cian, his father, used to call him the Sun-God; and both names stuck to him, but Lugh was the name he was best known by.

 Now Balor was watching the apple trees, and when he saw apples on them he brought the halter of Gobniu’s Cow to his daughter, and said: “Hide this, and when I am asked for it, it will be gone from me.”

Balor’s daughter took the halter, and a little afterwards Cian came to her with a branch of apples.

“The first apples for you!” he said.

She gave him the halter.

“Take it–and the child, and go away to the land you came from.”

“That is a hard saying!” said Cian.

“There is nothing else to do,” said she.

Cian took the child and the halter, and wrapped his cloak about him. He said farewell to Balor’s daughter and went till he came to the dark waters. A boat was there before him and the old man in it. Cian thought they were a short time in crossing.

“Do you remember our bargain? “said the old man.

“I do,” said Cian, “but I have nothing but the halter and this child–I will not make two halves of him.”

“I had your word on it!” said the old man.

“I will give you the child,” said Cian.

“You will never be sorry for it,” said the old man, “for I will foster him and bring him up like my own son.”

The boat touched the land of Ireland.

“Here is your cloak,” said Cian, “and take the child.”

Mananaun took the little child in his arms, and Cian put the cloak about him, and when he shook it out it had every colour of the sea in it and a sound like the waves when they break on a shore with the music of bells. The old man was beautiful and wonderful to look at, and Cian cried out to him:

“I know you now, Mananaun Mac Lear, and it was in a lucky hour I gave my son to you, for he will be brought up in Tir-nan-Oge, and will never know sorrow or defeat!”

Mananaun laughed and lifted the little Sun-God high up in his two hands.

“When you see him again, Cian, son of Dian-Cecht, he will be riding on my own white horse and no one will bar his way on land or sea. Now, take farewell of him, and may gladness and victory be with you!”

Mananaun stepped into the boat; it was shining with every colour of the rainbow as clear as crystal, and it went without oars or sails with the water curling round the sides of it and the little fishes of the sea swimming before and behind it.

Cian set his face towards the house of Gobniu, the Smith. He came to it, and he had the halter in his hand, and when he came the Cow was there before him and Gobniu came out to meet him.

“A welcome before you, young champion, and may everything you undertake have a happy ending!”

“The same wish to yourself!” said Cian, and gave him the halter. The Smith gave Cian the sword then, and there was gladness and friendship between them ever after.


(Edmond-Francois Aman-Jean – Portrait of Thadee Caroline Jacquet)


Love Poems: Rumi

Confused and Distraught

Again I am raging, I am in such a state by your soul that every

bond you bind, I break, by your soul.

I am like heaven, like the moon, like a candle by your glow; I am all

reason, all love, all soul, by your soul.

My joy is of your doing, my hangover of your thorn; whatever

side you turn your face, I turn mine, by your soul.

I spoke in error; it is not surprising to speak in error in this

state, for this moment I cannot tell cup from wine, by your soul.

I am that madman in bonds who binds the “divs”; I, the madman,

am a Solomon with the “divs”, by your soul.

Whatever form other than love raises up its head from my

heart, forthwith I drive it out of the court of my heart, by your soul.

Come, you who have departed, for the thing that departs

comes back; neither you are that, by my soul, nor I am that, by your soul.

Disbeliever, do not conceal disbelief in your soul, for I will recite

the secret of your destiny, by your soul.

Out of love of Sham-e Tabrizi, through wakefulness or

nightrising, like a spinning mote I am distraught, by your soul.

This is to Love

This is love: to fly to heaven, every moment to rend a hundred veils;

At first instance, to break away from breath –

first step, to renounce feet;

To disregard this world, to see only that which you yourself have seen I said, “Heart, congratulations on entering the circle of lovers,

“On gazing beyond the range of the eye,

on running into the alley of the breasts.”

Whence came this breath, O heart?

Whence came this throbbing, O heart?

Bird, speak the tongue of birds: I can heed your cipher!

The heart said, “I was in the factory whilst the home of water and clay was abaking.

“I was flying from the workshop whilst the workshop was being created.

“When I could no more resist, they dragged me; how shall I

tell the manner of that dragging?”

A New Rule

It is the rule with drunkards to fall upon each other,

to quarrel, become violent, and make a scene.

The lover is even worse than a drunkard.

I will tell you what love is: to enter a mine of gold.

And what is that gold?

The lover is a king above all kings,

unafraid of death, not at all interested in a golden crown.

The dervish has a pearl concealed under his patched cloak.

Why should he go begging door to door?

Last night that moon came along,

drunk, dropping clothes in the street.

“Get up,” I told my heart, “Give the soul a glass of wine.

The moment has come to join the nightingale in the garden,

to taste sugar with the soul-parrot.”

I have fallen, with my heart shattered –

where else but on your path? And I

broke your bowl, drunk, my idol, so drunk,

don’t let me be harmed, take my hand.

A new rule, a new law has been born:

break all the glasses and fall toward the glassblower.


(Edmond-Francois Aman-Jean – Telling Secrets)

The Black and White Bits…

very brightly coloured, very irridescent…deep sheens and very highly reflective surfaces. Everything is machine-like and polished, and throbbing with energy – but that is not what immediately arrests my attention. What arrests my attention, is the fact that this space is…inhabited.

Terence McKenna (discussing DMT)

Dear Reader,

Reading the above reminded me of a wonderful 5meo-DMT report that I read yesterday… It makes one nostalgic for one of those wondrous moments that the allies can lend to you. This report dealt with an insufflated dosage, which does seem to be one of the ancient tried and true methods. The person in the report had a most favourable time, enjoyable enough to go back in to that sacred space a second time an hour or so later.. I have seen these miracle molecules change so many peoples lives to the positive…

Unfortunately, our ever present protectors, the DEA are out to make this and a variety of other Tryptamines illegal. For some reason, they feel people are not sovereign unto themselves. Why is it the government insists on playing nanny to everyone?

Have become submerged again in the works of Bill Nelson, famed British Guitarist/Full Time Occultist. Through the kindness of acquaintances, I am coming up to speed with his voluminous output. At one time I collected his works but fell out of touch with it all when we moved from L.A. and changed our living habits. It is nice to discover that his creative drive is still running at the maximum. Stay tuned when Radio Free EarthRites gets off the ground. (we are testing it daily give it a checking out!) We will feature some of Bill’s more recent works…

In case you haven’t noticed The Holidays Are Looming

Thanksgiving (a form of Harvest Home) in the US of A is fast approaching. Loads of people going multiple places. We are spending it with a host of friends, which is always a dear delight. Looking forward to some good laughs, food and conversation.

Much Love,



On The Menu:

The Links

The Giver Should Be Thankful

Finding a Diamond on a Muddy Road

Poetry: The Buddhist Moment…

Art: Black &amp; White: Rick Griffin (pen and ink!)


The Links:

This Passes For Journalism in Kentucky…

Edible cotton breakthrough may help feed the world

The real prehistoric religion of Malta?

Natural Wonders!

Who the Mona Lisa IS, within a shadow of a doubt..


The Giver Should Be Thankful

While Seisetsu was the master of Engaku in Kamakura he required larger quarters, since those in which he was teaching were overcrowded. Umezu Seibei, a merchant of Edo, decided to donate five hundred pieces of gold called ryo toward the construction of a more commodious school. This money he brought to the teacher.

Seisetsu said: “All right. I will take it.”

Umezu gave Seisetsu the sack of gold, but he was dissatisfied with the attitude of the teacher. One might live a whole year on three ryo, and the merchant had not even been thanked for five hundred.

“In that sack are five hundred ryo,” hinted Umezu.

“You told me that before,” replied Seisetsu.

“Even if I am a wealthy merchant, five hundred ryo is a lot of money,” said Umezu.

“Do you want me to thank you for it?” asked Seisetsu.

“You ought to,” replied Uzemu.

Why should I?” inquired Seisetsu. “The giver should be thankful.”

Finding a Diamond on a Muddy Road

Gudo was the emperor’s teacher of his time. Nevertheless, he used to travel alone as a wandering mendicant. Once when he was on his way to Edo, the cultural and political center of the shogunate, he approached alittle village named Takenaka. It was evening and a heavy rain was falling. Gudo was thoroughly wet. His straw sandals were in pieces. At a farmhouse near the village he noticed four or five pairs of sandals in the window and decided to buy some dry ones.

The woman who offered him the sandals, seeing how wet he was, invited him in to remain for the night in her home. Gudo accepted, thanking her. He entered and recited a sutra before the family shrine. He was then introduced to the women’s mother, and to her children. Observing that theentire family was depressed, Gudo asked what was wrong.

“My husband is a gambler and a drunkard,” the housewife told him. “When he happens to win he drinks and becomes abusive. When he loses he borrows money from others. Sometimes when he becomes thoroughly drunk he does not come home at all. What can I do?”

“I will help him,” said Gudo. “Here is some money. Get me a gallon of fine wine and something good to eat. Then you may retire. I will meditate before the shrine.”

When the man of the house returned about midnight, quite drunk, he bellowed: “Hey, wife, I am home. Have you something for me to eat?”

“I have something for you,” said Gudo. “I happened to be caught in the rain and your wife kindly asked me to remain here for the night. In return I have bought some wine and fish, so you might as well have them.”

The man was delighted. He drank the wine at once and laid himself down on the floor. Gudo sat in meditation beside him.

In the morning when the husband awoke he had forgotten about the previous night. “Who are you? Where do you come from?” he asked Gudo, who was still meditating.

“I am Gudo of Kyoto and I am going on to Edo,” replied the Zen master.

The man was utterly ashamed. He apologized profusely to the teacher of his emperor.

Gudo smiled. “Everything in this life is impermanent,” he explained.”Life is very brief. If you keep on gambling and drinking, you will have no time left to accomplish anything else, and you will cause your family to suffer too.”

The perception of the husband awoke as if from a dream. “You are right,” he declared. “How can I ever repay you for this wonderful teaching! Let me see you off and carry your things a little way.”

“If you wish,” assented Gudo.

The two started out. After they had gone three miles Gudo told him to return. “Just another five miles,” he begged Gudo. They continued on.

“You may return now,” suggested Gudo.

“After another ten miles,” the man replied.

“Return now,” said Gudo, when the ten miles had been passed.

“I am going to follow you all the rest of my life,” declared the man.

Modern Zen teachings in Japan spring from the lineage of a famous master who was the successor of Gudo. His name was Mu-nan, the man who never turned back.



Poetry: The Buddhist Moment…(or non-moment as the case may be)

Jnanachandra – Princess Moon

Long ago in an age before which

there was nothing else,

the Victorious One, the Tathagata Dundubhisvara

came into existence and was known as the Light

of the Various Worlds.

The Princess “Moon of Wisdom”

had the highest respect for his teaching,

and for ten million, one hundred thousand years,

made offerings to this Enlightened One,

to his attendant Sravakas,

and to countless members of the Sangha of Bodhisattvas.

The offerings she prepared each day

were in value comparable to all the precious things

which filled a distance of twelve yojanas

in each of the ten directions,

leaving no intermediate spaces unfilled.

Finally after all this

she awoke to the first concepts of Bodhi-Mind.

At that time some monks said to her:

“It is as a result of these,

your roots of virtuous actions,

that you have come into being in this female form.

If you pray that your deeds accord with the teachings,

then indeed on that account you will change your form

to that of a man, as is befitting.”

After much discourse she finally replied,

“In this life there is no such distinction

as “male” and “female,”

neither of “self-identity,”

a “person”

nor any perception,

and therefore attachment to ideas

of “male” and “female”

is quite worthless.

The weak-minded are always deluded by this.”

And so she vowed:

“There are many who wish to gain enlightenment

in a man’s form,

and there are but few who wish to work

for the welfare of living beings

in a female form.

Therefore may I, in a female body,

work for the welfare of beings

right until Samsara has been emptied.”

– by Tibetan Lama Taranatha (b 1573 CE)

(Jnanachandra was an early name for Tara – A Buddhist Deity)


Enlightenment – Huang Po

When practitioners of Zen fail to transcend

the world of their senses and thoughts,

all they do has no value.

Yet, when senses and thoughts are obliterated

all the roads to universal mind are blocked

and there is no entrance.

The primal mind has to be recognised along with the senses and thoughts.

It neither belongs to them nor is independent of them.

Don’t build your understanding on your senses and thoughts,

yet don’t look for the mind separate from your senses and thoughts.

Don’t attempt to grasp Reality by pushing away your senses

and thoughts.

Unobstructed freedom is to be neither attached not detached.

This is enlightenment.

Endless Ages – Bodhidharma

Through endless ages, the mind has never changed

It has not lived or died, come or gone, gained or lost.

It isn’t pure or tainted, good or bad, past or future.

true or false, male or female. It isn’t reserved for

monks or lay people, elders to youths, masters or

idiots, the enlightened or unenlightened.

It isn’t bound by cause and effect and doesn’t

struggle for liberation. Like space, it has no form.

You can’t own it and you can’t lose it. Mountains.

rivers or walls can’t impede it. But this mind is

ineffable and difficult to experience. It is not the

mind of the senses. So many are looking for this

mind, yet it already animates their bodies.

It is theirs, yet they don’t realize it.


Cities in Dust

My friend Mike H. stopped by and dropped of a copy of Graham Hancocks’ “Supernatural” for me to check out.

Really enjoying the read. He heads right in with a tale of Iboga, and then on to Pech Merle. He touches on some great subjects. Highly Recommended. I will have a review of sorts when I am done. Funny how books drop into your life at the right moment.

I once had a book jump off of the shelf, “The White Goddess” by Robert Graves. Walked into a bookshop in Santa Monica, and walked towards some shelves. As I went to reach for a poetry book, The White Goddess leapt off a higher shelf into my hands… I took the hint.

Absinthe Decadent… Combining Champagne with Absinthe. A successful experiment on Saturday night with Tomas C, Paulo, &amp; Paul R, Mary and yours truly. Quite tasty! Recommended. See the recipe on Saturdays’ entry…

On The Menu

Cities In The Dust

The Quotes

The Links

Vision Quest / Shamanism vs. capitalism: the politics of ayahuasca

Poetry: Nibbles

Art: Pablo Amaringo

Have a good week!



A short visit down Nostalgia Lane…

Cities in Dust – Siouxsie and The Banshees

Water was running; children were running

You were running out of time

Under the mountain, a golden fountain

Were you praying at the Lares shrine?

But ohh oh your city lies in dust, my friend

ohh oh your city lies in dust, my friend

We found you hiding, we found you lying

Choking on the dirt and sand

Your former glories and all the stories

Dragged and washed with eager hands

But ohh oh your city lies in dust, my friend

ohh oh your city lies in dust, my friend

your city lies in dust

Water was running; children were running

We found you hiding, we found you lying

Water was running; children were running

We found you hiding, we found you lying

your city lies in dust

ohh oh your city lies in dust, my friend

Hot and burning in your nostrils

Pouring down your gaping mouth

Your molten bodies blanket of cinders

Caught in the throes …….

Ohh oh your city lies in dust, my friend

Ohh oh your city lies in dust, my friend

Ohh oh your city lies in dust, my friend

Ohh oh your city lies in dust, my friend

Your city lies in dust


The Quotes:

“It is only possible to live happily ever after on a day-to-day basis.”

“I have come to the conclusion that politics are too serious a matter to be left to the politicians.”

“How much easier it is to be critical than to be correct.”

“A sense of humor is part of the art of leadership, of getting along with people, of getting things done.”

“Reality is the leading cause of stress amongst those in touch with it.”

“I just need enough to tide me over until I need more.”

“I’m kind of jealous of the life I’m supposedly leading.”

“Every increased possession loads us with new weariness.”

“If you hate a person, you hate something in him that is part of yourself. What isn’t part of ourselves doesn’t disturb us.”

“Quotation, n: The act of repeating erroneously the words of another.”


The Links:

Is There A Dragon In That Sausage Mr.?

In Certain Circles, Two Is a Crowd

Qi – the energy of life

Where Were You Before The Tree of Life? Volume 1

Apparent Voice Of Dead Woman Heard On Audiotape


Vision Quest / Shamanism vs. capitalism: the politics of ayahuasca

by Martin A. Lee

WANDER long enough through the bustling passageways of any crowded village marketplace in the northwest Amazon and you’ll come upon herbalist stands with dried plants, hanging animal parts, and lots of bottled medicines. Among the local offerings you’ll inevitably find “ayahuasca,” a fearsome, foul-tasting, jungle brew sold by the liter.

Pronounced “ah-yah-waska,” the word is from the Quechua language; it means “vine of the soul,” “vine of the dead,” or “the vision vine.” Known by various names among 72 native ayahuasca-ingesting cultures in Peru, Colombia, and Ecuador, this legendary, industrial-strength hallucinogen is used by curanderos, or witch doctors, to heal the sick and communicate with spirits. Many rainforest shamans simply refer to ayahuasca as el remedio, “the remedy.”

Revered by indigenous people as a sacred medicine, a master cure for all diseases, it is without a doubt the most celebrated hallucinogenic plant concoction of the Amazon. But it’s also under threat from both anti-narcotics agencies and corporations that want to patent it and corner the market on its use.

Plant Teachers

Long ago, South American Indian medicine men and medicine women became adept at manipulating an array of ingredients that were mixed and boiled into ayahuasca, or “yagé,” as it is often called. An elaborate set of rituals governed every step of the process, from gathering leaves, roots, and bark to cooking and administering the intoxicant.

Ayahuasca is unique in that its powerful psychopharmacological effect is dependent on a synergistic combination of active alkaloids from at least two plants–the Banisteriopsis caapi vine containing the crucial harmala alkaloids, along with the leafy plant Psychotria viridis or some other hallucinogenic admixture that contains dimethyltryptamine (DMT) alkaloids.

Most curious is the fact that when taken orally, DMT is metabolized and deactivated by a particular gastric enzyme. But certain chemicals in the yagé vine counter the action of this stomach enzyme, thereby allowing the DMT to circulate through the bloodstream and into the brain, where it triggers intense visions and supernatural experiences.

Contemporary researchers marvel at what chemist J. C. Callaway describes as “one of the most sophisticated drug delivery systems in existence.” Just how the Amazon Indians managed to figure out this amazing bit of synergistic alchemy is one of the many mysteries of yagé.

The ayahuasqueros, the native healers who use yagé, will tell you that their knowledge comes directly from “the plant teachers” themselves. Hallucinogenic botanicals are viewed as the embodiments of intelligent beings who become visible only in special states of consciousness and who function as spirit guides and sources of healing power and knowledge.

According to indigenous folklore, ayahuasca is the fount of all understanding, the ultimate medium that reveals the mythological origins of life. To drink yagé, anthropologist Gerardo Reichel-Dolmatoff once wrote, is to return to the cosmic uterus, the primordial womb of existence, “where the individual ‘sees’ the tribal divinities, the creation of the universe and humanity, the first couple, the creation of the animals, and the establishment of the social order.”

The Great Cleansing

Ayahuasca was never used casually or for recreational purposes in traditional societies. Only a ritually clean person who maintained a strict dietary regimen (low on spices, sugars, and animal fat) for several weeks or months was deemed ready to partake of the experience. Shamanic initiation rites entailed a lengthy period of preparation, which included social isolation and sexual abstinence, before novices got to ingest yagé with the curandero.

A connoisseur of the chemically induced trance state, the curandero provides guidance to those who wish to embark upon a “vision quest.” But rainforest shamans typically “resist the heroic mold into which current Western image-making would pour them,” says anthropologist Michael Taussig. Instead, they often exude a bawdy vitality and a funny, unpretentious, down-to-earth manner.

More of a trickster than a guru or saint, the curandero is unquestionably the master of ceremonies, the key figure in the ayahuasca drama. After nightfall, the bitter brew is passed around a circle from mouth to mouth, and the shaman starts to sing about the visions they will see. Listening to his chant, the novices feel some numbness on their lips and warmth in their guts.

A vertiginous surge of energy envelops them. And then all hell breaks loose: retching, vomiting, diarrhea–an unstoppable high colonic that penetrates the innards, sweeping through the intestinal coils like liquid Drano of the soul, cleansing the body of parasites, emotional blockages, long-held resentments. It is for good reason that Amazonian natives refer to la purga when speaking of yagé.

“One cannot help being impressed by the remarkable health-enhancing effects attributed to the purging action of the vine,” writes Sonoma-based psychologist Ralph Metzner, editor of Ayahuasca, an anthology of scholarly and first-person accounts of the yagé experience. Metzner notes that there have been anecdotal reports of the complete remission of some cancers after one or two ayahuasca sessions. The rejuvenating impact of la purga would help explain the exceptional health of the ayahuasqueros, even those of advanced ages.

“Space/Time Travel”

After the unavoidable episode of purging, the senses liven up and the initiate experiences a kind of “magnetic release from the world,” as Wade Davis, author and explorer in residence with the National Geographic Society, puts it. This is followed by an onslaught of spectacular visions, a swirling pandemonium of kaleidoscopic imagery that changes faster than the speed of thought.

While under the influence of ayahuasca, it is not uncommon for people to feel as though they have been lifted out of their bodies and catapulted into a strange, aerial excursion. During this voyage to far-off realms, they see gorgeous vistas and enchanted landscapes that suddenly give way to harrowing encounters with fierce jaguars, huge iridescent snakes, and other predatory beasts intent on devouring the novice.

William Burroughs described the sensation of long-distance flying when he took ayahuasca during an expedition in South America in 1953. “Yagé is space time travel,” he wrote in a letter to Allen Ginsberg. “The blood and substance of many races, Negro, Polynesian, Mountain Mongol, Desert Nomad, Polyglot Near East, Indian–new races as yet unconceived and unborn, combinations not yet realized pass through your body. Migrations, incredible journeys through deserts and jungles and mountains . . . A place where the unknown past and the emergent future meet in a vibrating soundless hum.”

It is not known why the visions provoked by ayahuasca often involve Amazon jungle animals, even when people from other continents swallow the acrid tonic. Stories of anacondas the length of rivers and electric eels that light up the night sky are classical elements of the yagé experience. Heinz Kusel, a trader living among the Chama natives of northeastern Peru in the late 1940s, recounted how an Indian once told him that whenever he drank ayahuasca, he had such beautiful visions that he “put his hands over his eyes for fear that someone might steal them.”

Drug Wars in the New World

Indeed, there was a time when people did try to steal the visions. Ever since the European invaders came to the New World more than 500 years ago, they scorned and demonized ayahuasca and other hallucinogenic substances that were employed by native peoples in their healing rituals.

Western knowledge of yagé ceremonies was first recorded in the 17th century by Jesuit missionaries who condemned the use of “diabolical potions” prepared from jungle vines. The ruthless attempt to eradicate such practices among the colonized inhabitants of the Americas was part of an imperialist effort to impose a new social order that stigmatized the ayahuasca experience as a form of devil worship or possession by evil spirits. But the ingestion of yagé for religious and medicinal purposes continued, despite the genocidal campaigns of the conquistadors.

It wasn’t until the 1930s that Richard Evans Schultes, director of Harvard University’s Botanical Museum, provided a scientific analysis of the complex ethnobotany of yagé and many other psychoactive plants in the Amazon region. By this time, the shamanic use of ayahuasca had spread from remote jungle areas to South American urban centers, where mestizo curanderos added a Christian gloss to archaic Indian ceremonies. Several Brazilian churches started to administer ayahuasca as a sacrament in a syncretic fusion of Catholicism and shamanism.

The two largest of these church movements–Santo Daime and União de Vegetal–utilized yagé in their religious services without interference by the Brazilian government until the mid-1980s, when U.S. officials pressured Brazil’s Federal Council on Narcotics to put the Banisteriopsis caapi vine on a list of controlled substances. The ayahuasca churches protested, and a government committee was appointed to investigate the matter. After examining the churches’ use of yagé and testing it on themselves, the members of this committee recommended that the ban on ayahuasca be lifted.

The Brazilian government acted upon this recommendation and legalized the sacramental use of yagé in 1987, much to the dismay of the U.S. Embassy.

Resurgent Shamanism

The revival of shamanic rituals found a fertile ground, particularly in areas where wealthy plantation owners and multinational corporations displaced peasants from the land. For these poor and desperate people, ayahuasca was a gift that helped them cope with the expansion of the market economy into the frontier. As their subsistence society unraveled, so, too, did their sense of sanity and well-being.

Consequently, a growing number of mentally ill individuals and uprooted wage laborers sought out curanderos, who were forced into a new role. In addition to curing the sick and communicating with the spirit world, many witch doctors began using ayahuasca to mediate class conflict. As one Putumayo medicine man told Michael Taussig, “I have been teaching people revolution through my work with plants.”

The more big business encroached upon native turf, the greater the resurgence of shamanism. And in another ironic twist of globalization, the sacred beverage of the Amazon made its way to Europe and the United States, sending law enforcement into a tizzy.

The Santo Daime religion has taken root in Hawaii and the Bay Area, where yagé sessions are held in secret. This ayahuasca church also has branches in several other countries, including Great Britain, Belgium, France, Germany, Spain, the Netherlands, the Czech Republic, and Japan.

In October 1999, successive police raids targeted Santo Daime members in the Netherlands, France, and Germany. The crackdown prompted church representatives throughout Europe to mobilize. They are seeking official recognition of their religion, and they want the sacramental use of ayahuasca to be legalized.

Predictably, U.S. narcotics control officials are opposed to ending the prohibition against yagé, despite Peruvian medical studies that indicate ayahuasca can be an effective treatment for cocaine addiction. The fact that yagé tastes so awful–to the point where some people can’t even bring themselves to swallow it–provides an additional safeguard against those who might use it in a cavalier fashion.

Who Owns Yagé?

The U.S. pharmaceutical industry has also taken an interest in ayahuasca. Loren Miller of the International Plant Medicine Corporation received a sample of the yagé vine from a tribal elder in Ecuador. In 1986, Miller obtained a U.S. patent for a specific type of Banisteriopsis caapi with the hope of profiting from the plant’s medicinal properties. The patent, which gave Miller’s company exclusive rights in the United States to breed and sell a new variety of the plant, is due to expire in 2003.

Upon learning what had transpired, the Ecuador-based Coordinating Committee of Native Organizations of the Amazon Basin (COICA) accused Miller of committing “an offense against indigenous peoples” by patenting a sacred plant for his own benefit. “Commercializing an ingredient of the religious ceremonies and of healing for our people is a real affront for the over four hundred cultures that populate the Amazon basin,” declared COICA General Coordinator Antonio Jacanamijoy. COICA proclaimed that Miller and his company were unwelcome in indigenous territories. The State Department considered this warning a death threat against Miller and interceded on his behalf.

The controversy over ayahuasca spilled into the diplomatic arena when the Ecuadorian government refused to sign a bilateral agreement on intellectual property rights with the United States in 1996. Washington countered by threatening Ecuador with economic sanctions. Thus far, the U.S. Senate has refused to ratify the United Nations Convention on Biological Diversity that recognizes the property rights of native people. More than 100 countries have signed this treaty, including Ecuador.

While multinational corporations seek to exploit the natural treasures of the Amazon, the destruction of the rainforest continues at an accelerated pace and indigenous ways of life are being threatened. “I feel a great sorrow when trees are burned, when the forest is destroyed,” explained Peruvian shaman and painter Pablo Cesar Amaringo, co-author of Ayahuasca Visions. “I feel sorrow because I know that human beings are doing something very wrong. When one takes ayahuasca, one can sometimes hear how the trees cry when they are going to be cut down. They know beforehand, and they cry. And the spirits have to go to other places, because their physical part, their house, is destroyed.”


Martin A. Lee is the author of ‘The Beast Reawakens’ and ‘Acid Dreams: The CIA, LSD, and the Sixties Rebellion.’ He can be reached at



In an earlier version of this article, Martin Lee wrote that Loren Miller of the International Plant Medicine Corporation “had pulled out a yagé plant from the garden of an Ecuadorian family without asking permission, hurried back to the United States with the vine, and then applied to the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.” This statement, which was based on previously published sources, is incorrect. Mr. Miller was given a sample of the yagé vine in 1974 by a tribal leader in the Ecuadoran Amazon. In 1981 he applied for a patent on a particular variety of Banisteriopsis caapi. Mr. Lee erred in stating that Miller’s patent was denied by the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office. The patent was granted by the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office (PTO) in 1986, but was challenged in 1999 by the Washington-based Center for International Environmental Law on behalf of COICA. This triggered a see-saw legal battle that culminated in a decision by the PTO to confirm Miller’s patent on January 26, 2001. Mr. Miller maintains that the International Plant Medicine Corporation, which engages in pharmaceutical research, has never commercialized or profited from the yagé vine or the patent. He states that “this patent has been sitting harmlessly in a drawer gathering dust, and that it does not affect the natives’ use of their plants in any way, shape or form.” Mr. Lee apologizes to Mr. Miller and his company for any errors in the original version of this article and regrets any problems that this may have caused.


Poetry: Nibbles….


The great sea has set me in motion,

Set me adrift,

And I move as a weed in the river.

The arch of sky

And mightiness of storms

Encompass and stir me,

And I am left

Trembling with joy.

The Shulammite (Song 5:2-6 of The Song Of Songs)

I was asleep but my heart stayed awake.


My lover knocking:

“Open, my sister, my friend,

My dove, my perfect one!

My hair is wet, drenched

with the dew of the night.”

“But I have taken off my clothes,

How can I dress again?

I have bathed my feet,

Must I dirty them?”

My love reached in for the latch

And my heart

Beat wild.

I rose to open to my love,

My fingers wet with myrrh,

Sweet flowing myrrh

On the doorbolt.

I opened to my love

But he had slipped away.

How I wanted him when he spoke! . . .

Sabina Lampadius

As a symbol

of sacred mysteries,

I Sabina,

daughter of Lampadius

and so of an honorable person,

here erected

to Attis and Rea

an altar forever.

Deo’s orgies

and the terrifying

Hekate nights

I experienced.

From The Tempest – William Shakespeare

Be cheerful, sir:

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,

As I foretold you, were all spirits and

Are melted into air, into thin air:

And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,

The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,

The solemn temples, the great globe itself

Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve

And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,

Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff

As dreams are made on, and our little life

Is rounded with a sleep.

Old Pond – Basho

Old pond,

frog jumps in — splash.